


red bordeaux, 1971

by princesskay



Series: the summer of '81 [3]
Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Heavy Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Pining, Shameless Smut, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-12-09 06:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20990585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: [Holden] spends every trip they take absorbing as much of Bill’s attention and affection as possible, knowing their time is limited, and it will be only a matter of hours before they’re back on a plane, back to their real lives; meanwhile, Bill spends their hours together in a state of euphoric denial, enjoying what they’re giving each other while maintaining a purposeful disconnect from the act itself, purporting ground rules as if they’ll save him from the inevitability of reality and consequences.Against his better judgment, Bill continues his affair with Holden, but their fledgling relationship is threatened as both Holden and Nancy look for a commitment to making things right.





	1. Chapter 1

Muted jazz tunes and the fruity scent of air freshener are meant to give Dr. Moritz’s waiting room a relaxed, inviting atmosphere. Even the office’s telephone is stuffed away in some back corner of the reception area to maintain a low level of noise so as not to disturb any of the patients or families. To Bill, the office is stifling, cramped, and nerve-wracking. Midway through July, the temperature outside has spiked to a suffocating eighty-seven degrees that even the rattle of the air-conditioner can’t entirely battle. The other people in the waiting area sit with the same stoic expressions as he and Nancy, whatever nervous whispers seeping from them pouring out anxiety and dread into the stale air. 

There’s an empty chair between he and Nancy. She had taken the chair in the corner by the side table where stacks of magazines are put to distract them from the long wait and the silence. She has  _ Good Housekeeping _ open in her lap, but she’s been staring at the same page for the past five minutes. 

He has nothing to distract himself, and he’s thought about getting up and sitting in the chair directly beside her five times in the last minute. 

_ Jesus Christ, when did I get nervous to sit beside my own wife?  _ He thinks, rubbing a hand over his forehead. He knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to consider it right now. A glance at his watch tells him its been nearly an hour, and Dr. Moritz should be calling them back to review the session with Brian at any moment. 

He clears his throat, and Nancy looks up from her magazine as if startled. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” He says, averting his gaze to the bland carpet. 

She gazes at him curiously for a moment before turning back to her magazine. She finally turns the page from “10 Summer Playtime Ideas.” He doesn’t peek at the next glossy page because he’s already thinking about how other kids are out playing in the sandbox or on the swingset while Brian is in here, being poked and prodded by a psychologist. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Tench?” 

They both bolt up out of their chairs when Dr. Moritz’s assistant opens the waiting room door. 

“He’s ready for you.” She says, smiling kindly. 

The other patrons in the waiting room watch as they file through the door that leads back to the doctor’s office. A woman sitting with her son makes brief eye contact with Bill, and she smiles at him. It’s not a friendly smile. It’s a smile of commiseration.  _ I know what you’re going through.  _ But she doesn’t. She doesn’t have any fucking clue. 

The assistant leads them down the hallway to Moritz’s office, and pushes the door open to let them inside. 

“Good morning.” Dr. Moritz says, arranging papers on his desk, “Please, have a seat.” 

Brian is already sitting across from the doctor, his hands arranged loosely in his lap. His head is down, eyes perpetually fixed on the floor. Nancy takes the chair beside him, and bends down to press a kiss to the top of his head. He doesn’t react to her, but as Bill sits down, his gaze shifts upward. There’s a latent glaze of fear beneath the dark fringe of his lashes that might have gone unnoticed by someone unaccustomed to quickly reading and dissecting other people’s behavior. Bill feels the weight of that glance in his chest, and again in his stomach as Dr. Moritz clears his throat. 

“I’m sorry for the delay.” Dr. Moritz says, “Brian was talkative this morning.” 

“Really?” Nancy asks, squeezing Brian’s shoulder. “That’s good, right?” 

“Yes.” Dr. Moritz says, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers over his midsection. “Like I said last time, he’s starting to talk about what happened, which is good; but he had something else on his mind this morning.” 

Bill shifts uncomfortably in his chair as the doctor’s gaze wanders over Brian and Nancy before settling on him. 

“What is it?” Nancy asks, quietly. 

“Brian tells me that you haven’t been at home for the past few weeks.” Dr. Moritz says, the harsh edge of judgment underlying his placating tone. 

“Well, you know what I do for my job.” Bill says, glancing over at Nancy even as the lie begins to form on his lips. “I have to travel quite a bit, and sometimes I get home when Brian’s already gone to bed.” 

“He says that he and Nancy have been staying with Grandma.” Dr. Moritz adds, his head cocking pointedly to one side. 

Bill draws in a breath, searching for a better explanation than the truth, but Nancy puts a hand on his forearm. 

“Bill, it’s okay.” She says, pressing her eyes shut. “I’m sorry, Dr. Moritz. We should have told you sooner. Things have been difficult since all of this started. We’re in the process of selling our house and moving, and we thought it was best if we took some time to … to-” 

“I see.” Dr. Moritz says, “What kind of conversations have you had with Brian about this arrangement?” 

“Well, I-I told him that it was … temporary.” Nancy says, her eyes shifting anxiously toward Bill. “We’re trying to work things out.” 

Dr. Moritz nods, thoughtfully. “And what about you, Bill?” 

Bill’s gaze drops to his lap as the doctor’s cunning gaze drifts back to him. He can feel the force of it bearing down on him, demanding answers about things Bill doesn’t want to tell him. 

“We haven’t, um … I haven’t spoken to Brian about it.” He says. 

“Okay. And do you agree with Nancy that you are trying to make things work between you?” 

“That’s the plan.” 

“I see.” Dr. Moritz leans forward to brace his elbows on the desk. “Okay, look. I’m here to help Brian. I’m his therapist, not yours, but I have to tell you, the impact that this situation is having on him is going much deeper than what you’re both seeing right now. He’s very upset by the fact that you’re never home, Bill. And he doesn’t understand why, Nancy, because you haven’t answered his questions.” 

“I’m sorry.” Nancy says, “I just didn’t know what to tell him.” 

“The truth.” Dr. Moritz says, softly. “Believe me, kids appreciate honesty more than you know. And if you are planning on separating permanently, it’s better to tell him now than to delude him into believing that you’re going to work things out eventually.” 

“That isn’t what we want.” Nancy says, her arm curling tighter around Brian’s shoulders. 

“She’s right.” Bill says, “We both want what’s best for Brian.” 

“Then, I would kindly suggest looking for active, problem-solving measures.” Dr. Moritz says, “Like I said, I’m not your therapist; but you might consider finding one.” 

“A marriage counselor?” Bill asks, unable to keep the objection out of his voice. 

“At least consider it.” Dr. Moritz says, “Look what therapy is doing for Brian.” 

“We’ll think about it.” Nancy says. 

Bill suppresses a sigh, and rubs a hand over his jaw. Dr. Moritz continues talking about Brian’s progress, but his mind has already drifted away from the conversation.  _ A fucking marriage counselor.  _ The last thing he needs is someone else getting involved in the convoluted mess his life has become. 

By the time they get out of the office, it’s half an hour later. 

Bill scrounges for his cigarettes as holds the door for Nancy and Brian. They emerge onto the sidewalk where the morning sun is already high in the sky and hot as hell. 

“I’m late for work.” He says, glancing at his watch. “Will you just call me later about the house?” 

“Of course.” Nancy says. 

“See you, big guy.” Bill says. He ruffles Brian’s hair, earning him a scowl. 

“Have a good day at work.” Nancy says, offering a stiff smile. 

“Thanks.” 

He lights his cigarette as he trudges down the sidewalk to his car. The rush of nicotine eases the tension in his shoulders by some small measure, but he’ll take what he can get. He and Holden are headed out to Kansas in the next few days for an interview, and the last thing he wants is the stress of his mortally-wounded marriage limping in between him and relief. 

~

The relatively quiet morning in the BSU basement is interrupted by the shrill ring of Holden’s telephone. The sound jolts him from his unbroken focus on the dossier on Francis “Don” Nemechek, their next interview subject. He’s been staring at the words on the page for the last ten minutes, but though his mind is tripping ahead to Kansas, he isn’t thinking about Nemechek’s MO or his victims. 

The plane ride is always the worst part. Seated side-by-side on the cramped, domestic flight, they can’t help but accidentally touch one another while maintaining what would appear to anyone else as casual body language between co-workers. But, inside Holden is screaming with every jostle of Bill’s elbow, every brush of his knee against Holden’s, every intense glance they share as the plane carries them farther and farther from home. Each time, he’s fighting an erection by the time they land, the bump of the wheels hitting the tarmac like some Pavlovian thrust against his body, warning him that relief is only an hour away. By the time they get the hotel room, both of them are so wound-up and desperate that the first half hour is a panicked rush to get out of their clothes, get their hands on each other, and achieve release as quickly as possible. It’s not until later, when the initial burst of pent-up need is behind them that they relax, go over the details of the interview, make a plan, and head to the correctional facility. He can think clearly by that point, and after the interview - especially if it goes well - they spend the rest of the evening beneath the hotel sheets, Bill’s fingers inside him, turning him to helpless heap of trembling, boneless limbs, the throbbing center of him screaming in divine pleasure as that expert touch slowly unwinds him, pushing him toward the edge-

Holden blinks as the shriek of the telephone interrupts his daydreaming. 

“Are you going to get that?” Gregg asks, glancing up from his paperwork. 

Holden snatches the telephone, pushing aside the reckless thread of his thoughts. 

“BSU. This is Ford.” 

“Agent Ford, hello. This is Chief Hartwell.” 

“Oh hello, Chief.” Holden says, straightening in his chair. “How are you?” 

The chief’s voice coming through the other end of the line splashes cold water on his heated thoughts, jarring him back into the harsh reality of work. They had conversed several times since Holden and Bill left Colorado, and in some small way, the conversations, even if they didn’t lead to any real leads, helped ease Holden’s mind about leaving the little town in disarray. He can’t tell if it’s Hartwell’s reassurance that he’s helping or the nights with Bill, but the panic attacks have lessened to the point that he can leave the house without his Valium without worrying about hyperventilating on the job. 

“Doing fine.” Hartwell says, “I hoped we could talk about some new developments in the case.” 

“Of course.” Holden says, slipping his hand underneath the desk to physically compress the erection pulsing against the taut fabric of his pants. 

“As you know, we had two more since you were in town. Karen and Julie.” Hartwell says with a sigh. “We got another one yesterday and … It’s unusual.” 

“Why is that?” 

“Well, she’s older than all the rest.” 

“We saw a lot of variance in the ages.” Holden says, “How much older?” 

“A lot. Fifty-six.” 

“You’re right. That is unusual.” 

“Well, I’ve got your profile here, and I haven’t forgotten what you and Agent Tench said.” Hartwell says, “This newest victim, Victoria Leeds, she has a son, Jason. He’s twenty-four, recently divorced, unemployed. He was living with her up until her death because he had to file for bankruptcy after the divorce.” 

“He fits the profile.” Holden says, “Any history of assault?” 

“None that he was busted for.” Hartwell says, “But the wife claims spousal abuse, and that’s why she left him. I hear the divorce was pretty ugly. The judge was very preferential towards her.” 

“Have you questioned him yet?” 

“He gave a statement about the night his mother died, but he doesn’t have an alibi. Says he was at home watching TV when it happened. His mother had gone out grocery shopping, and never came home.” 

“Did he report her missing?” 

“A day later.” Hartwell says, “We looked high and low for her, but it wasn’t until last night that a fisherman pulled her out of the lake. She’d been wrapped in plastic and weighed down.” 

“How long was she in the water?” 

“The coroner estimates close to a week.” 

“Did she have the numbers?” 

“Yes.” 

“He tried to hide her, unlike all the others.” Holden says, “This is very telling. He knew he could be linked to her, so he tried tying her down to conceal the crime. Victoria could be the holy-grail, Chief.” 

“You think I should bring him in?” 

“I suggest you go see him at his home.” Holden says, “Don’t let him know you’re coming. Just show up under the excuse that you’re checking in on him, wanting to see if he’s doing well. Talk to him about his mother, gauge his reaction.” 

“That’s a good idea.” Hartwell says, “Most of the evidence got washed away with the water, so I need something to go on.” 

“He must be in a fragile mental state.” Holden says, “He’s just killed his mother, the person he’s been dreaming of butchering. Now that he’s gotten what he wanted, he might not know what to do. Now that he’s achieved his fantasy, his life his over.” 

“You think he might confess?” 

“Ed Kemper, the Co-Ed Killer, was one of our interview subjects. After he killed his mother, he skipped town, expecting a manhunt. When no one came, he called from a payphone to confess. When I spoke with him, he said he didn’t mind prison and has no intention of trying to get out. He got the ultimate satisfaction when he killed her.” 

“I hope it’s that easy.” Hartwell says, “I’m just praying this all over soon.” 

“Me too, Chief. And don’t hesitate to call if you have any other questions. I want to help as much as I can.” 

“Thank you. You’ve already been a huge help. I’ll let you know how it goes with Leeds.” 

Holden hangs up with Hartwell just as the door of the BSU opens, and Bill strides in. 

“Sorry I’m late.” He says, “I’m ready to start reviewing Nemechek when you are.” 

“I’ll be in a minute.” Holden says. 

His erection had flagged over the course of the conversation with Hartwell, but he arranges himself under the desk nonetheless, assuring no one will notice where his mind had been only minutes ago. He retrieves Wendy from her office, and they all gather in the conference room to discuss Nemechek. 

Holden watches Bill carefully throughout the conversation, wondering about this morning’s therapy session, wondering how it might affect their trip to Kansas. He seems on edge, more so than usual. Holden can see the stress in the clench of his jaw, and hear it in the brief, clipped responses he gives to Wendy’s theorizing. He turns his pen between his fingers, playing it across his knuckles, thumbing at the clip. This anxious energy could be a positive for Holden; by the time they get to Kansas, there could be little gentility left in those hands, only brusque, hungry desperation and a feverish need to escape into the stroke of Holden’s mouth. 

~

As the plane speeds down the tarmac and lifts into the air, Bill grips the armrests and tilts his head back against the seat. The initial pressure of the aircraft gaining speed and rising to fifty-thousand feet makes his stomach drop and his head pound, but the annoyance of his ears popping barely makes a blip on his range of concentration. 

Holden had taken his jacket off as soon as they found their seats on the plane, and he’s in the process of rolling up his sleeves in carefully measured folds, hardly bothered by the jostle of the plane and the cabin pressure stabilizing. He has soft, delicate hands. Their every movement is calculated, down to the push of his index against his watch, noting the time. 

Bill tears his gaze from Holden’s fingers, and tugs his cigarettes from his pocket. Christ, he’s burning through them these days. His nerves are frayed, leaving only smoke and nicotine to hold together the tattered pieces of his resolve, his fucking sanity. 

_ Ground rules.  _ He reminds himself as Holden takes a sip of his water, his throat bobbing against the neat knot in his tie.  _ Not until we’ve landed.  _

This silly little arrangement started after they returned from Colorado. Against his better judgment, he’d spent that evening with Holden in his bed. Holden blew him again. Bill hid his face in Holden’s neck as he stroked down on his dick, rubbing furiously, silently pleading for him just come already so it could be over. His own desires slapped him in the face when Holden moaned his name through the orgasm, and he couldn’t stop himself from touching Holden again the way he had in the hotel room in Colorado. After two thorough orgasms, Holden fell asleep on his arm, and that’s when Bill decided what they needed were ground rules. 

No more blowjobs in the bathroom at work. No talk of hooking up at work. No sleepovers. No visiting each other at home. It stays on the road, in the hotel rooms, between interviews and plane flights, far away from Virginia where the consequences can’t touch Nancy and Brian. 

When he’s at home, he’s working on rectifying the situation with Nancy. He calls her every night. He signed the fucking papers to sell the house. He went with her the open houses. 

They’d had several long conversations about the future, and what both of them wanted. Some of them ended in arguments, others in helpless, humming silence over the telephone line as they both realized that either way it wouldn’t be a clean, painless break. The only thing they could agree on was that they wanted what was best for Brian. 

They’d found a home in the neighborhood Nancy wanted, and put in their best offer. If the seller accepted, it would be a matter of weeks before they could move in. Nancy hadn’t really asked him if he would be joining them, but had mostly assumed. He let her assume thinking he would be over this brief cavort into sexual insanity by then, over these inexplicable desires, over Holden. 

It was all going splendidly until three days ago at Dr. Moritz’s office. His secret escapades with Holden collided with the reality of the widening gap between he and Nancy as the therapist suggested they might need  _ marriage counseling.  _ He had it all compartmentalized and boxed away, but the idea that he and Nancy might not make it erupted into focus with a furious intensity at being pushed aside and ignored for far too long.

Maybe he’s as delusional as some of their interview subjects. Maybe he should just say “fuck it,” and take his marriage out back with the shotgun. Put them both out of their misery. Maybe he’s too fucking scared of what that means, what his life after ending it means, to go through with anything so drastic. Not when denial tastes so good; denial tastes like Holden, stripped bare underneath him, slobbering into the pillow as Bill finger-fucks him over the edge. 

Bill takes a hard drag of his cigarette as the roar of the plane engines ease and the pressure in the plane evens out. Clouds drift past the window, giving him that sense of unreality and disconnection from home that he longs for with every trip they take across the country.

“We’ll have an hour before we have to be at the correctional facility.” Holden says, interrupting the scattered train of Bill’s thoughts. 

Bill nods, blowing a steady stream of smoke past his lips. He can feel Holden’s gaze on him, probing, testing, looking for a reaction. The little shit. He’s giddy with it. Can’t fucking wait until they’re on the ground in Kansas, at the hotel, leaving the second booked room empty while Bill pins him to the sheets. 

The stewardess arrives with the drink cart, giving him an excuse to momentarily ignore Holden’s pressing gaze. It’s too early to be drinking, but she’s offering and he’s not inclined to say no even if it is bourbon when he would’ve preferred whiskey. 

Taking a drink, he savors the tang of alcohol nonetheless. 

“So, how was therapy on Friday?” Holden asks, “You were pretty late getting to work.” 

“It was fine. The doctor just wanted to review Brian’s progress.” 

“Is there progress?” 

“Some.” Bill says, “He’s wetting the bed less, according to Nancy. Speaking more.” 

“That’s good.” 

“The doctor seems pleased.” 

“What about the social worker?” 

Bill cuts Holden a tried glance. “Hard to say. She’s not the friendliest person. Nancy says she seems fine with them staying at her mom’s for right now. We’ve given her assurances that they’ll be moving out of there soon.” 

“What kind of assurances?” 

Bill’s reply stalls in the back of his throat as Holden’s meticulous gaze picks apart the fine details of that statement. 

“Are you moving with them to the new house?” Holden asks. It could have sounded entirely innocent, but Bill can hear undertone of distaste, a surprising hint of jealousy. 

Bill hesitates, taking a sip of his drink before mustering a reply. “Nancy wants me to.” 

“Wow.” Holden says, his gaze shifting back to the window. 

Bill gives a frustrated exhale. “Holden-”

“That’s some nerve, Bill.” Holden says, his gaze shooting back to Bill’s. His cheeks are flushed now, his jaw taut with annoyance. “She left while you were gone, and took your son with her.” 

“I know what happened. I was there.” 

“And you were destroyed.” Holden says, “You’re actually considering it?” 

“She’s my wife, Holden. In a custody battle, I would never get Brian. I’m barely home as it is, and then to have the times I am in town reduced to court-regimented visitation … There’s a lot to consider. It’s not just …  _ us _ .” 

The word tumbles from his lips, sour and grim.  _ Us.  _ He blames himself for even letting such a connotation between them exist. 

“I’m not just thinking about us.” Holden says, “I’m thinking about you.” 

“How very kind of you.” Bill says, pressing his cigarette to his mouth. “Unfortunately, it’s not up to you. And I’m not discussing this with you while we’re working.” 

“We’re not working yet.” Holden says, his gaze narrowing stubbornly as Bill’s cigarette smoke drifts across his field of vision. “We’re not going to be working until we’re out of that hotel and at the correctional facility.” 

Bill can think of a dozen irrational retorts, but none that he would want to say within earshot of complete strangers. Maybe Holden’s trying to piss him off, trying to wind him up so tightly that everything explodes the moment they’re alone. Maybe it’s working. 

The flight lasts only two and a half hours, but every second is excruciating as they sit side-by-side, containing all the pent-up need and frustrations that have built since their last interview. By the time the plane lands in Lansing, Kansas, Bill can hardly look at Holden without feeling the hot punch of anticipation amalgamating with the lingering clutch of frustration deep in his belly. 

They collect their bags and secure a rental car. The drive to the hotel lasts twenty minutes, and Holden spends the duration flipping through the radio channels. Bill has half a mind to snap at him to just pick a damn station already, but his thoughts are too wrapped up in the near future, when the hotel door shuts and he doesn’t have to censor his urges and responses. 

Serene piano music plays in the lobby of the hotel as Bill and Holden check in at the front desk. The young lady manning the desk seems to be moving far too slowly, every motion gradual yet careless. When she finally hands them their room keys, Bill mutters a hasty thank you, and discreetly grasps Holden by the elbow to turn him in the direction of the elevators. 

Somehow, Gregg had managed to book them five stories up, but at least he’d gotten rooms on the same floor. Not that they’ll be using the second room. It’s purely for appearance’s sake. Back in the days of road school, their budget couldn’t stretch to cover two motel rooms, but under the auspices of the LEAA and NIJ, asking to share a room would look suspicious. Bill is more than willing to waste their sponsors’ money on an empty room if it means keeping their secret a secret. 

People get off and on at every floor, forcing the elevator to gain speed before grinding to halt, slowly cranking the doors open and shut again before repeating in a seemingly pointed attempt to make Bill lose it before they’ve even reached their room. 

Bill meets Holden’s gaze across the meager space between them. Holden’s fingers are white-knuckled around his suitcase handle, and the unforgiving yellow light of the ceiling-mounted bulbs illuminates the fine sheen of sweat gathering on his brow. The evident flush on his cheeks could have been attributed to the summer heat, but Bill can tell he’s carefully hiding a growing erection behind his jacket folded over his arm. 

Bill grimaces a smile. At least he’s not the only one on the verge of splintering under the mounting pressure of need. 

When the elevator finally reaches the fifth floor, they bolt out into the hallway at the same time. 

Bill quickly scans the room numbers before lifting the room key. 

“It’s this way.” He says, nodding to their left. 

Holden is on his heels as he strides down the corridor, checking the placard on each door for the room number. They’re at the end of the hall, tucked in the corner. The spare room is adjacent, giving them an inadvertent layer of privacy from the guest inhabiting the third room over. 

Bill slides the key through the lock, and the door unlatches with a muted click. He holds the door open, and Holden shuffles in ahead of him, giving the room an arbitrary scan before dropping his suitcase on the desk. 

Bill pushes the door shut behind him, and bends to place his suitcase on the floor. His hands curl at his sides, squeezing back a tremor. There’s always this moment of hesitation before Holden undresses, when he wonders whether he still wants this or if he can back out. Then, every time, Holden takes his clothes off, and that’s the end of any strand of rational thought. 

Holden slides open the latches of his suitcase, and ceremoniously lifts the lid. The Vaseline is lying on top, the last thing he packed before closing the lid. He takes the jar from it’s place nestled among his precisely folded shirts and trousers, and carries it to the nightstand. He sets it there, his fingertips lingering against the lid as their eyes meet across the room. 

Bill hears the rasp of his breath over the rising drum of his heartbeat. Need plunges past his belly and into his groin, forcing him into motion. 

He marches across the room as Holden reaches up to loosen his tie. The accessory is still loosely knotted around his neck when Bill seizes him by the waist, dragging him into a hard kiss. The collision of their mouths is brutal, Bill channeling all of his frustration and repressed need into the hard stroke of his lips and the hot press of his tongue thrusting past Holden’s teeth. 

Holden moans as Bill’s teeth prick the puckered bow of his upper lip before his tongue soothes the smarting flesh. His own tongue lapses forward against the push of Bill’s mouth, smearing saliva along Bill’s lower lip. Bill palms his cheek, and braces his thumb against Holden’s chin, forcing his mouth open wider to the harsh graze of his lips and tongue. 

The force of his need has them stumbling back against the edge of the mattress, and Bill clutches Holden’s backside with his other hand to keep him from falling backwards onto the bed. The motion pushes their hips against one another, lodging Holden’s pulsing cock against his own. 

Holden delves his fingers underneath Bill’s jacket, shoving the garment back from his shoulders until it rustles to the ground. He tugs at Bill’s tie, and gets the top two buttons of his shirt open before Bill draws back. 

Holden’s mouth is pink and brutalized by Bill’s kiss, hanging open slightly as raspy breaths stretch from his chest. 

Bill grabs the knot of his tie, and pulls it over his head. 

“Get this off.” He says, motioning to Holden’s shirt. 

Holden’s fingers obediently dart to the buttons of his shirt. As he opens the front of the shirt, Bill unbuckles his belt, and tugs the zipper of his slacks down. The two pieces of clothing come off almost simultaneously, and Holden kicks the puddled trousers from his ankles while stripping the shirt from his wrists. Yanking the undershirt over his head, he drops his hands to the waistband of his underwear where his cock is blatantly engorged against the fabric.

Bill catches him by the wrist before he can touch any part of himself pulsing with need. Dragging Holden to him, he kisses him again, trying vainly to satiate the aching hunger for the taste of Holden’s mouth, his skin, every inch of him. His mouth always tastes good, his moans responsive and effusive to Bill’s kisses; and if he could have satisfied himself on this connection alone he would have, but it’s never, ever enough. 

Holden’s fingers sneak against his shirt buttons again, getting all the way down to the last button before Bill severs the kiss. 

Their bodies disconnect with a jolt as Bill takes a staggered step back. He breathes hard, half-dizzy from the force of the kiss. 

“Turn around.” He says, gruffly, already physically pushing Holden’s hips to make him face the bed. 

Holden pants quietly into the silence of the hotel room as Bill sidles up behind him, pressing the thick bulge of his clothed erection against his backside. A muted whimper slips past the clench of Holden’s jaw, playing across Bill’s raw nerves like fire. 

He pushes Holden down to the sheets, and grabs one of the numerous, overstuffed pillows from the head of the bed to shove under Holden’s hips. Delving his fingers into the hair at Holden’s nape, he pins his face to the sheets as he crawls between Holden’s legs. Holden’s fingers snag at the sheets, dragging handfuls of silky fabric to him as Bill slides his fingers beneath the waistband of his underwear. 

A whimper erupts from Holden’s throat and is muffled in the mattress. His hips squirm as Bill drags the underwear over the curve of his ass, and releases the elastic to snap tautly against his thighs. 

“Is this what you wanted?” Bill asks, the question climbing his throat in a raspy whisper. 

Holden nods against Bill’s grip on his hair. 

Bill grazes his palm over the naked swell of Holden’s ass cheek, biting against his lower lip as the caress draws a visible shiver all the way down Holden’s spine. His thumb creeps out to follow the top of the cleft all the way down to where his hole is tightly puckered, waiting to be oiled and stretched open. 

Holden’s hips buck against the light caress, and an almost panicked moan pushes against the muzzle of the mattress. His head tilts down beneath Bill’s grip, giving him just enough room to draw in a raspy breath, and moan, “Fuck, yes … please.” 

Keeping a hand on the back of Holden’s neck, Bill leans over him to swipe the Vaseline from the nightstand. Thumbing the lid open, he dips two fingers in and swipes the cool gel across Holden’s hole without letting it warm on his skin first. Holden whimpers and wiggles under Bill’s grip on his neck. His knees shift wider across the mattress, and his hips rise in a shameless display of desire. 

Bill pushes a finger inside as Holden’s hips rise up to meet the stroke of his hand, going in to the knuckle and wringing a strangled cry from Holden. He’s always so tight on the first thrust, clamping down on Bill’s finger in shock before his body shifts into fully-realized need and it feels good, better than anything he’s ever had. Bill isn’t so assured of his abilities, but Holden whimpers it every time as he limps and shudders from the grip of orgasm, his body weak and pleasured against Bill’s chest.  _ Fuck, Bill, that’s so good.  _ So, Bill keeps doing it, telling himself he’s trying this hard because it pleases Holden more than it pleases him, knowing somewhere deep down that every time his fingers go in, he’s getting more satisfaction from the act than he ever did out of sex. 

He doesn’t have to think about it so much when Holden is wildly expressive, taking up the air with his moans and gasps, taking up all of Bill’s attention with the rock of his hips, the clench of his ass cheeks when Bill touches him just right, the quiver of his hole going taut around Bill’s fingers when the orgasm is close. Even now, after they’ve done this so many times, Holden is quivering beneath him, thrusting into the steady push of Bill’s fingers, moaning like some sweet innocent virgin who never knew what a climax was before this moment. 

_ Christ,  _ Bill thinks,  _ if he wasn’t so fucking loud it would be easier to say no.  _

But it’s hard to say no when Holden is this happy to be getting fingered within an inch of his life, and all Bill asks for in return is a blowjob. 

Holden gathers his knees under himself as Bill grinds two fingers down against his hardening prostate. Keeping his face in the mattress where Bill’s hand firmly guides him, he makes enough room between his hips and the pillow to grab at his swollen, leaping cock. 

A dizzying amount of arousal hits Bill as he watches Holden, bent over, ass raised and taking his fingers, stroking desperately at his cock as pleasure erupts bright and pink across his skin. His body seizes, and Bill feels the telling clamp of muscle around his fingers just before release spills across Holden’s knuckles and the pillow. His moans are muffled in the sheets, but Bill can hear them well enough; every single one that sounds like a curse, and the ones that have his name stuffed in between like a delirious chant. 

As he comes down from it, Bill retrieves his fingers and wipes them carelessly on the sheets. He turns to sit on the edge of the mattress, bracing his elbows against his knees. The smell of Vaseline, sex, and sweat clings to his nostrils, and his cock throbs painfully against the constraint of his trousers. 

Holden rolls over, rubbing both hands over his face and drawing in a shaking breath. 

“That was exactly what I wanted.” He says, a faint chuckle clinging to his remark. He sounds so fucking pleased with himself. 

Bill shoots him a glance over his shoulder as he reaches down to unfasten his trousers. “Are you done glowering?”

Holden sits up, meeting Bill’s glare with a devious glint in his eyes. “Nearly.” 

“Get over here.” Bill says, not trying to suppress the irritation in his tone.

Holden slides off the edge of the mattress to situate himself on the floor between Bill’s knees. His fingers are eager to help as Bill strips his pants and boxers to the floor. 

“I could do something else, you know.” Holden says as his hands ride up Bill’s knees and thighs, “I could do what you do for me. It’s unbelievable, Bill - I’ve never had the kind of orgasm that I do when-”

“Right now, I want you to stop talking.” Bill says, glancing at his watch. “We have half an hour.” 

“Okay, we can table that for now, but-”

“What did I just say?” 

Holden’s mouth falls shut, but his eyes have that stubborn glare that Bill recognizes well. He’s like a dog with a bone. Maybe by the time they get back from the correctional facility, he’ll be too wrapped up in the details of the interview to be thinking about sex or what Bill might be missing out on. He can only hope. 

Bill closes his eyes as Holden’s mouth takes his cock in, sucking down with the same unmatched excitement he always does.  _ Fuck,  _ Bill thinks,  _ if it wasn’t so damn good it would be easier to say no.  _

~

On most of these trips, Bill gets what he wants out of Holden before shutting back down, and reverting behind a stoic layer of professionalism. Holden doesn’t complain because he too is getting what he wants, but he likes the way their bodies fit together when they’re lying in a post-sex mess, half-embracing if they had the guts to call it that. Usually once their breathing slows and reality sets back in overtop the haze of need, Bill gets restless. 

_ No bed sharing. _ That had been one of the ground rules. 

But it’s past ten o’clock, and they’re tangled up in the sheets and each other, more satisfied and relaxed than anyone would expect from two people who’d just come from an interview with a rapist and killer. Neither of them feel like moving, and Holden is just watching the exhaustion ripple across Bill’s face while the minutes melt towards bed time. He doesn’t push Holden off the way he usually does, or complain that he’s tired and ready to sleep. He lays still with Holden’s head on his shoulder, smoking his cigarette with a limp hand as if it’s an afterthought rather than a decision.

Holden wonders what he’s thinking, fully aware he’ll never know. Is it Nancy? Is it Brian? Is it his own denial that this strange little love affair is even happening? No matter which affliction is troubling him, maybe this moment is the right one for Holden to assert a request he’s been longing for since Bill assigned the ground rules. 

Holden smooths his thumb across the steady rise of Bill’s ribs, and gathers his courage. “Can I sleep here tonight?” 

Bill drags his cigarette from his mouth, and glances down at Holden’s hopeful expression, smoke clouding the narrow space between them. 

“Ground rules.” He says. 

“You look pretty comfortable yourself.” Holden says, nestling his head against Bill’s shoulder. “Please?” 

Bill lets out a sigh that sounds like both frustration and resignation. There’s a long stretch of silence before he shakes his head, and mutters. “Fine.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, but you can’t lay on my arm all night.” Bill says, jostling his arm underneath Holden’s weight. “I can’t feel my hand.” 

“Sorry.” Holden mutters, lifting his head so that Bill can retrieve his arm. 

He settles his head back down on Bill’s shoulder once his arm is free, and runs his fingertip down Bill’s forearm. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me yet.” Bill says, displacing Holden’s head from his shoulder when he sits up abruptly. 

Lounging back against the pillows, Holden watches Bill shuffle to the bathroom, and search for his toothbrush. The domesticity of watching Bill get ready for bed surprises him with a warm ball of energy in his chest. It’s a little glimpse into the private parts of himself he’s tried so hard to keep from Holden, a ritual reserved for a spouse. Well, Nancy is at home pretending she can still save their marriage while Holden is here, in Bill’s bed, making him happier and more satisfied than she has in years. It feels right. 

Holden gets himself up to take his turn in the bathroom, and wanders in as Bill is rinsing toothpaste from his mouth. Holden plucks his own toothbrush from his toiletry bag, and waits until Bill is done. 

Bill straightens from the sink, casting Holden a sharp glance in the mirror. 

“Don’t look so fucking self-satisified.” He says. 

Holden struggles to keep the smirk off his mouth. “I’m not.” 

“This is a one time thing.” Bill says, swiping his mouth with the hand towel and tossing it on the sink. “Now hurry your ass up. I’m turning the lights off.” 

Holden grabs his toothpaste as Bill brushes past him, muttering a sound of annoyance that only makes the smile tugging at Holden’s mouth stretch wider. 

By the time he’s done brushing and flossing, Bill has turned off the bedside lamps like he promised, and is under the sheets with his back turned to Holden’s side of the bed. Holden slides under the sheets, curling up to face his back. 

He lies awake for a long time, listening to the rhythmic sound of Bill’s breathing as he falls asleep. In the dark, Holden can make out the shape of his shoulders and the back of his head, and he wants to reach out and touch him. 

_ No cuddling.  _ That was another ground rule that he’d like to break if he wasn’t afraid that Bill would end things the moment he tried. 

It’s past eleven by the time he falls into a restless sleep that seems to last a matter of minutes before he starts to dream. He’d been a child afflicted by nightmares, his vivid imagination so often running away with him and conjuring monsters from thin air; but he doesn’t have to create monsters any longer because he’s seen the darkest things imaginable, and they are the things of adult nightmares. 

He sees her approaching from down the dark hallway, her naked, white body limping at a steady, jagged gait toward him. She's slashed to tatters, her belly etched with those damning numbers.  _ 666\.  _ It seems to take forever for her to reach him, but as her face creeps from the shadows he finds himself pinned to the ground. She’s floating above him, her shorn blond hair jutting from her scalp as if electrocuted. Her eyes are wide with horror, her face bloodless, her mouth stretched open in a hollow scream. He can hear it subliminally, more of growing hum rather than a shriek. Blood drips from her mouth. He sees it falling, falling, falling towards his face; any minute it will hit him, and he’ll taste her death and the flies gestating in her decaying orifices. Any minute, she will seize him and-

Holden jolts awake, his eyes blinking wildly against the darkness. It takes him a full ten seconds to realize he was dreaming, another to realize Bill’s hand is on his shoulder, shaking him. 

“Holden?” 

“I’m fine. I’m awake.” Holden gasps, scrambling upright in the bed. 

Bill sits up beside him, and reaches over to turn on his lamp. Light washes the room, driving away any sense of imagination, revealing nothing more than furniture and wall decor. No dead, floating body.

“You were having that dream again.” Bill says, quietly. 

Holden nods, rubbing both hands over his face.

“Was it her?” 

“Yes.” Holden whispers into his palms. “Lisa Jane.” 

“I thought you said it was getting better.” 

“It was. Chief Hartwell called the other day about the case, and they’ve found another body. Our conversation must have triggered it.” Holden says, scraping a hand through his hair. He turns his chin against his shoulder to peek at Bill. “Some night for you let me sleep here, right?” 

He tries to force a laugh, but Bill’s gaze his somber, if not concerned. 

“Do you need a Valium?” He asks. 

“No, I’m fine.” 

“Okay.” Bill says, “Can I turn off the light?” 

Holden nods. 

The lamp clicks off, and they both sink back against the sheets. Holden blinks against the darkness, shoving away the creeping sense at the back of his neck that Lisa Jane’s face could appear out of the shadows at any moment. 

He rolls over to find Bill’s shoulder in the dark, and clings to his side. It grounds him, feeling Bill beside him, knowing nothing bad could happen if he’s right there. He stretches a hand across Bill’s stomach to grip his side, drawing their bodies close together. 

“What are you doing?” Bill asks, “Don’t tell me you’re horny after all that.” 

“No.” Holden whispers, “Can you just hold me?” 

The question lingers in the air for a long moment, and Holden half expects to be kicked out of the bed and ordered back to his own room. Maybe Bill is just as tired of the ground rules as Holden, though, because he turns onto his side, and pulls Holden to his chest. 

Holden releases a quivering sigh as his head comes to rest against Bill’s chest. A warm sense of security soothes the disturbed nausea gripping his belly and the jittery fear sparking his nerves. The girl’s dead face retreats to somewhere far in the back of his mind. 

Holden wants to say something like “thank you,” but just speaking might disrupt the perfect equilibrium he’s managed in order to get Bill’s arms around him. Instead, he closes his eyes and snuggles closer, breathing in Bill’s scent until the drum of his heartbeat lulls Holden to sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

At 7AM, the hotel room smells of cigarettes and coffee. The haze of smoke simmers over gold-white streams of early morning sunlight stretching through the half-open blinds above the bed. The trickle of awareness bursts into a steady stream as Holden comes awake, his body compressed and relaxed and naked against the warm swath of the bedsheets. A hand squeezes his shoulder, nudging him gently from dreams. 

A quiet groan puddles in the back of his throat as his eyelids flutter open against the clash of sunlight and the yellow blare of the bedside lamp. Bill comes into view above him, his cigarette doing a balancing act against the corner of his mouth. 

“Our flight’s in an hour.” Bill says. 

Holden squints up at him, his half-awake brain jolting into functioning assessment as the details of the previous night wander into his recollection. Despite being naked in bed after satisfying sex, and he might argue an even more satisfying cuddle, Holden can already sense that the barrier is back between them. Bill is looking down at him no more differently than if he were sitting at his desk in the BSU, fully clothed, talking about methodology and murder. 

“Hurry up before we’re late.” Bill says, taking a step back from the bed. 

Holden pulls himself upright, and tosses the sheets back. As his legs spill over the side of the bed, Bill tosses his underwear in his lap. 

“Thanks.” Holden mutters. 

He tugs the briefs on, and rises from the edge of the bed to stretch the stiffness from his limbs. Through squinted eyes, he glimpses Bill’s gaze wander from his face, down his bare chest and the taut stretch of his abdomen before darting to a worn patch in the carpet. 

Bill takes another hard drag of his cigarette, and smoke billows between them, screening off the scrutiny in Holden’s gaze. 

Holden waits a moment as the conflict in Bill’s eyes seems on the verge of spilling past his lips, but Bill brushes past him, intent on shuttering any discussion of the previous night. 

Holden gathers a change of clothes from his suitcase, and carries them into the bathroom. He leans into the door to close it, and pauses to assess his reflection in the mirror over the sink. His hair is a disheveled mess, and his eyes a glassy from sleep. He’s wearing yesterday’s underwear, but he isn’t thinking about a hair comb or hygiene. There’s a giddy excitement in his chest, a perhaps Icarian certainty blooming in his veins that whatever happened last night is monumental, if not irreversible. 

He spends every trip they take absorbing as much of Bill’s attention and affection as possible, knowing their time is limited, and it will be only a matter of hours before they’re back on a plane, back to their real lives; meanwhile, Bill spends their hours together in a state of euphoric denial, enjoying what they’re giving each other while maintaining a purposeful disconnect from the act itself, purporting  _ ground rules  _ as if they’ll save him from the inevitability of reality and consequences. Those ground rules are now well and truly shattered, and Holden hopes permanently irretrievable. 

Their next interview is only two weeks away, giving Bill little recovery time between now and the next time they’re alone. Holden has already crossed more than one line, and perhaps next time will be even easier to test the rigidity of the rules. 

Holden takes a quick shower and brushes his teeth before venturing back out into the hotel room. 

Bill is sitting on the end of the bed, smoking his cigarette while watching the TV. He glances up with a grimaced smile as Holden’s attention snags on the newscast. 

“They got him.” He says.

Holden wanders closer to the TV as the camera pans the front of a residential home, and bold, red letters display the location below: Congress Park, Colorado. A reporter with blond hair and red lipstick is stationed on the narrow street with a microphone, a smile slathered on her mouth like a triumphant survivor, the pretty blond who never caught the killer’s eye. 

“I’m at the scene of what is finally the end of the a weeks’ long manhunt for a serial killer who murdered eight women here in this quiet, Denver suburb. Behind me is the home of Jason Leeds, and his mother, Victoria, who was also one of his victims. He lived here with his mother after a tumultuous divorce which police believe pushed him to kill.” 

A mugshot of the Leeds pops up in the upper right hand corner of the screen. Holden moves closer to the TV, taking in the details of the killer’s face. He has greasy, blond hair and three day’s worth of stubble. His eyes are sunken and lifeless, his mouth tipped downward in a state of dismay at having been caught. 

“According to sources, Leeds was already under suspicion after the death of his mother.” The news anchor continues, “It was that surveillance that allowed detectives to witness his attempted kidnapping of his ex-wife, who may have been his next victim if they had not intervened. I have Chief of Police, Geoffrey Hartwell, here with me.” 

The camera backs up to reveal the chief at her side. She extends her microphone to him. “Chief Hartwell, tell me how do you feel now that this reign of terror for Congress Park is finally over?” 

“Extremely relieved.” Hartwell says, appearing flushed and exhausted under the glare of the camera. “It was beginning to feel like it would never be over, but our citizens can finally rest easy tonight knowing this deranged psycho is off the streets.” 

“I’ve already spoken to some of your officers who are lauding you a hero.” The news anchor says, “They say you were the one who first suspected Leeds, and due to your tenacity in following his movements, he was caught today.” 

“I’m no hero. It’s just good, old-fashioned police work.” Hartwell says, “We had the FBI out here a couple of weeks ago, and those are the real heroes. It was their insight and profile that helped us nail Leeds. Without their techniques, we might still be looking.” 

“What kind of techniques?” The anchor asks. 

Holden’s attention shifts from the television as Hartwell gives a bare-bones explanation of he and Holden’s numerous conversations. 

“I can’t believe it’s over.” He whispers. 

“I thought you would be happy.” Bill says, swiping the remote to turn off the TV. “He can’t hurt anyone else. No more bad dreams.” 

“I am glad they stopped him.” 

“You look like you just lost your best friend.” 

“I did enjoy my conversations with Chief Hartwell.” 

“Maybe he’ll call you up again to congratulate you.” Bill says, “Your profile was right.” 

“Our profile.”

Bill smiles grimly, and claps him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get packed so we can head out.” 

Holden nods. As he folds his belongings back into his suitcase, a distinct yet convoluted sense of loss hits him in the chest. He’d poured his heart and soul into the Congress Park case, and had even looked forward to Hartwell’s calls. It gave him the affirmation that he was helping, that they were doing something right, that their work meant something greater. In the wake of Atlanta, maybe he needs that validation more than anything, and now it’s gone, just as quickly as an embrace in the dead of night and a shared bed. 

The needs compounding inside the cramped space of this room come into sharper, brighter focus hitting him like the light against the dull throb of a hangover headache. He can still taste Bill’s cock in his mouth as the raspy whisper urges from above:  _ That’s it. That’s so good.  _ It’s all he has left. It’s all he wants, and he’s like a dying man staggering through the desert, going from scarce oasis to dried up well and back again in search of relief. The scheduled interviews stretch sparsely across the next few months, the desperate, stitched-together pieces of their affair already planned out from start to finish. By the time this study is over, he’ll have Bill’s body, his bed, his attention; everything except the one thing he truly longs for, the one thing Bill withholds because saying such a thing would make it all too real. 

Holden’s momentary sanguine bliss in the bathroom fizzles into an aimless, anxious hum in his veins. Bill doesn’t seem to notice as Holden gets dressed and packs his suitcase. The door closes behind them on the disheveled state of the bed, cutting that memory off before it can evolve into something that could hurt them both. 

~

The smooth hum of the Plymouth’s engine beneath him offers placid white noise to the panicked chase of Bill’s thoughts. He flicks ashes out of the car window into the muggy evening air, and cuts a narrowed glance at the house across the street. Parked at the curb in front of Nancy’s mother’s house, he can see through the front windows into the living room where Nancy is sitting with Brian on the couch while her mother comes in and out of the kitchen, preparing the meal they’re all meant to sit down to in ten minutes. 

Bill checks his watch, and swallows back the sick dread lumping at the back of his throat. 

Once he got back into town from the Nemecheck interview, Nancy had phoned him to say her mother wanted them all to have dinner together. It wasn’t optional, at least not from Nancy’s tone of voice. 

He hadn’t been over since their split despite the number of times he’d considered driving here to persuade Nancy to come back home. He and Jeri, Nancy’s mom, had always gotten along quite well, but that situation might have changed in light of recent events. He wonders what Nancy has told her. In what light has she painted the details of their separation? Is he the bad guy, or the husband that she still loves despite the rough patches? 

“Fuck it.” Bill mutters, tossing the remnants of his cigarette out the window. 

He steps out of the car, and strides across the street to Jeri’s driveway. As he approaches the house, the front door creaks open, and Nancy pokes her head out. 

“Hey, sorry I’m late.” He says, “I got hung up at the office.” 

“It’s okay. Mom’s just pulling the roast out of the oven.” Nancy says, opening the door wider to let him in. 

They linger in the entryway, sharing a floundering gaze before Nancy’s clears her throat. 

“Brian’s playing the the living room.” She says, managing a smile. 

He nods. “Okay.” 

Bill draws in a steadying breath as he wanders down the hall to the living room. Brian is crouched on the floor, guiding a toy car methodically around the circular ramp laid out on the carpet. He doesn’t look up as Bill approaches, entirely focused on the repetitive path of the car. 

“Hey there, buddy.” He says, sitting down on the couch across from Brian. 

Brian casts him a brief glance that could hardly be called an acknowledgment before going back to his toy car. 

Bill rubs a hand over his forehead, suppressing the thrum of a growing headache. When he opens his eyes, he sees Nancy standing in the doorway watching them with a tiny frown knitting her brow. She manages a smile when their gazes connect, but he knows her too well to buy into the unified sense of family that she’s pushing with this dinner. His dynamic with Brian isn’t much different than before a toddler died, and he and Nancy can’t speak without finding something to argue about. 

Jeri rounds the corner just as Bill tries to muster the urge to engage with his son again. 

“Bill, I didn’t hear you come in.” She says, her plastered smile matching the faint dread on Nancy’s face. “Dinner’s ready.” 

“Great. Thanks for having me.” He says, rising from the couch to scrape together some sense of respect and decorum. 

She nods vaguely and goes back into the kitchen. 

_ Fuck.  _ He thinks, casting Nancy a frown. 

She shakes her head. “It’s fine.” 

Once they’re all seated around the table, Nancy clears her throat. Bill can sense a speech coming. 

“Bill, I told you that my mom wanted everyone here tonight, but it was more my idea than hers.” Nancy says. 

Jeri focuses on scooping her mashed potatoes into a perfect dollop on her spoon. Her eyebrow raises incrementally, and Bill is getting the sense that none of this was her idea. 

“I wanted all of us together tonight because I have some good news.” Nancy continues, “The seller of the house we wanted has accepted our offer.” 

“Really?” Bill asks, forcing a positive note into the question as Nancy’s announcement thrusts the heavy rock of dread sinking in his stomach even lower. 

“Yes. All we have to do is sign the paperwork.” Nancy says, “And we’ve already had a few successful open houses at the old house while you were away. We’re reviewing the offers now.” 

“That was fast.” Bill says. 

“Not really. It’s been a couple of weeks.” Nancy says, “Besides, the market in these neighborhoods is hot right now. I’m surprised there wasn’t more hassling over the price with the seller.” 

“That’s a good thing, I suppose.” Bill says, averting his gaze from Nancy’s hopeful smile. 

“How long before you can move in?” Jeri asks. 

“Like I said, we just have to sign the paperwork, so not long at all.” 

“I have to say, it’s been so nice having you here.” Jeri says, reaching over to squeeze Nancy’s hand. “I hate to see you go, if I’m being honest, but-”

“It’s okay, Mom.” Nancy says, “We’re still going to be close. We can come visit.” 

“Of course. But, I know you’re busy people with busy lives.” 

Bill focuses on his plate as the conversation continues without him, and his mind wanders from the dinner table. The past several weeks with Holden suddenly feel like a fantasy he’d conjured to soothe his smarting heart and pride though he remembers it all in excruciating detail. In a matter of days, he could be back living with Nancy and Brian, a family again. The intimacy of such an arrangement would make it harder to conceal an affair.  _ An affair; yes, that’s what it is.  _ The thought is almost too much to bear seated next to his son, the unfortunate collateral in his fracturing marriage. 

Bill manages to finish his dinner despite the dread gripping the pit of his stomach. He excuses himself to step outside for a cigarette, using Jeri’s no smoking in the house rule as an opportunity to escape the stilted conversation. 

On the back porch, the hum of crickets winds through the air. The humidity has slacked off with the sunset, leaving behind an invigorating warmth that would have otherwise made for the perfect summer evening. 

Bill sits down at the patio table, and lights a cigarette. The lighter clicks shut, snuffing out the golden gleam of light and leaving him in the moonlit darkness of the back yard. Everything is quiet and still, but his mind is racing far from Jeri’s house. He’s thinking of hotel room after hotel room, one fist in Holden’s hair, the other in the bedsheets, the feeling of sweet abandon when Holden’s mouth first touches his. It’s forbidden fruit, the one thing he wants but can’t have. He can’t keep this up, not if he intends to move back home and repair his marriage. 

But Christ, he’s going to miss it. Not just the sex, but those little moments afterward when Holden’s gaze is one of abject adoration and satisfaction, and his fingers are limply intertwined with Bill’s, when his body deflates in post-sex bliss and not a thing could infiltrate the contentment of Holden’s head on his chest, his breathing heavy and exhilarated, his little whimpers:  _ God, Bill, you make me feel alive.  _ There’s no antidote for Holden, and so he’ll have to live with those moments even as he turns his back on them. 

The patio door slides open, and Nancy steps out onto the porch. 

“You’ve been out here for awhile.” She says. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees, “Your mom wants to throttle me, doesn’t she?” 

“You could sense that?” Nancy asks, a faint chuckle tugging at her question. 

He blows out a sigh, and taps ashes toward the ground. “Do you?” 

A beat of silence. “No.” 

It doesn’t sound entirely like a lie, but there’s a hesitation in her reply that sounds more like confusion than anger. 

“Have you considered what Dr. Moritz said?” Nancy asks, wandering across the porch his side. 

“What? Marriage counseling?” 

“Yes. It’s not the worst idea, you know.” 

“I don’t know, Nance.” 

“What? At this point, I’m willing to take all the help I can get.” She says, casting him a sharp glance. “I want to make this work, Bill; I really do.” 

“So do I.” 

Her mouth purses, and she glances away before the doubt can fully evolve in her eyes. 

“You don’t believe me?” He asks. 

“You’ve been distant. You dragged your heels about selling the house, and now you’re sitting out here, by yourself-”

“She doesn’t want me here.” He says, jabbing a hand back at the house. “And I don’t blame her. If someone did to my child what I’ve done to you, I wouldn’t let them back over my doorstep.” 

The crickets swell in the silence, the chirping chorus reverberating in Bill’s brain over the hollow echo of Nancy’s tense gaze and absent protest. 

She crosses her arms tightly around her middle, and stares out into the shadowy shapes of the trees lining the yard. 

“I just want to know what you’re thinking … what you’re feeling.” She whispers, “If you can’t figure out how to tell me yourself, maybe a counselor would be helpful.” 

Bill shakes his head. “I can’t do it, Nancy. I interview and psychoanalyze people all day, and you know what I’ve learned? Talking about it doesn’t make it better. It doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t reverse the damage.” 

“That isn’t the same thing.” 

“It’s close enough.” 

“I think it would help.” 

Bill shoots her a glare over the cloud of cigarette smoke pouring from his mouth, but her gaze is fixed straight ahead, her jaw stubbornly clenched. She isn’t letting this go. 

Bill drops his dwindling cigarette to the ground, and stomps it beneath his heel. 

“Let’s talk about this later.” He says, “We should get back inside.” 

He doesn’t wait for her to agree. Suddenly, the crickets and the breeze and the saccharine smell of summer like an overripe fruit are too much against his bloated conscience. He goes back inside to the living room where Brian is playing with his toys in stifled silence again; and it feels like some small relief that even though his son won’t speak to him, at least he won’t accuse and demand and cry. He wants nothing from Bill, and at the moment, that’s all Bill wants. 

~

In any other situation, Bill wouldn’t need two hours to muster his courage, decide what he wants, and speak it aloud, but as the tarmac of the Tallahassee International Airport speeds towards him, he silently wishes the flight had been longer. It’s been two weeks since Kansas, and he’d spent every moment at work between now and then avoiding Holden, avoiding what this trip to Florida means. He’d tried working up the fortitude a number of times to pull Holden aside after work, or to simply pick up the goddamn telephone and end things like a coward. But every day for the last fourteen days, he’d walked into the BSU, glanced at Holden seated obliviously at his desk, and thought,  _ I’ll do it tomorrow.  _

Now they’re alone again, and his self-control has the tenacity of a matchstick. 

Bill’s stomach knots as they exit the airplane and head down to baggage claim. Holden strides ahead of him, perfectly calm despite the desperation Bill knows is surging in his veins.

His foot had nudged Bill’s under the table of the conference room while they reviewed the details of their next subject, drawing Bill’s gaze to his. The little smirk on his mouth was enough to send Bill’s heart thudding, establishing a panicked baseline from that moment all the way until now as he bends over to retrieve his suitcase from the carousel. Bill’s gaze lingers on the taut stretch of his trousers across his ass, his mind already conjuring the image of clothing stripped away, Holden underneath him, legs spread, hips thrusting against the steady press of Bill’s fingers, mouth stretched open in a helpless cry of intense pleasure that-

“That was your suitcase.” Holden says, his remark shattering the runaway surge of Bill’s thoughts. 

“Fuck.” Bill says as his suitcase rides down the carousel past him. He rushes down the line, muttering apologies to the other passengers crowded around the track. He manages to grab the suitcase before it can roll out of his reach, and hauls it off the belt with a grunt. 

When he drags the suitcase back to where Holden is waiting, Holden suppresses a smile. 

“Ready?” He asks. 

“Yeah.” Bill mutters, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. 

Outside the airport, the late July sun is at its peak, and the thick taste of humidity weights the air. They both roll down the car windows as Bill steers the rental car away from the airport and towards the hotel. Bill reaches up to loosen his tie, feeling sweat gathering under his shirt and lining his back. 

He cuts a glance across the car to glimpse Holden’s head tilted back against the seat, his neck open to the hot breeze swamping the car. A fine layer of sweat glazes his flushed throat, leading a narrow trickle of perspiration down into the hollow of his collarbones. His hair ruffles in the wind, the neatly combed strands blown loose and curling stubbornly against his temples. Eyes shut against the bluster of air, he looks quite content despite the sweat stains blooming at his armpits. 

_ Christ, he has no idea.  _ Bill thinks, clamping his lips hard around his cigarette. 

By the time they reach the hotel, sweat is trickling down Bill’s temples. It’s easy enough to blame it on the unforgiving, Floridian heat, but his stomach is a nauseated ball of dread and his stupid, eager dick is competing against the thought of turning Holden down when his throat and cheeks are ripe with need, his body hot and growing hotter against Bill’s resisting hands. 

The air conditioning inside the hotel is a sublime relief, but both of them are still flushed when they collect the room keys and head for the elevator. Bill can feel the sweat cooling on his cheeks and under his shirt as they ride up to the third floor. They’re alone on the elevator unlike the recent trip to Kansas, yet another jab by the universe to carry him unobstructed toward the thing he must do, the last thing he wants to do. 

Holden is out of the elevator ahead of him, striding purposefully down the hallway towards their rooms, booked side by side. He stops at the first door of the pair, and sets his suitcase down to unlock the door. 

Bill lingers behind him, sweat itching against his palms. He glances up and down the hall, vaguely hoping someone will come down the hallway and force them into separate rooms to avoid suspicion. No such luck. It’s as if they’re the only weary travelers in this god-forsaken stretch of hellish sand and sun. 

Holden wanders into the room, and drops his suitcase on the bed. Shrugging out of his jacket, he tosses it carelessly across the bed, and turns in a slow circle to face Bill. He tugs at the knot in his tie, his teeth pushing suggestively against his lower lip. 

Bill stands limply in the doorway, watching the seconds unfold, noting the neatly made bed, the blatant opportunity to dive past honesty in favor of fantasy.  _ One more time won’t hurt.  _ It’s a dangerous thought, the same brand of reckless decision-making that had carried him to this point in the first place. He hadn’t said  _ no  _ the first time or since, but he should say  _ no  _ this time before it’s too late. 

“Coming?” Holden asks, sliding the tie over his head. His fingers tug at the button of his collar, dragging the fabric open to expose his flushed, gleaming throat. 

Bill takes a staggered step into the room, and nudges the door shut behind him. Leaning back against the door, he lets his suitcase drop to the ground. 

“Holden-” 

He can’t say much more than that because Holden has already started across the room towards him, stripping away his shirt. When he reaches Bill, the shirt drifts from his wrists, and he palms Bill’s face as he leans in to plant a bracing kiss on his mouth. 

Bill grasps at his hips, fingers sinking against the thin layer of his undershirt and into warm, supple flesh. He can feel Holden trembling in his grip as his mouth strokes hungrily against Bill’s, growing more confident despite Bill’s hesitation. His tongue pushes against Bill’s languishing lips, finding its way past his teeth, lapping against his palate. He tastes sweet, promising relief, promising abandon. 

Bill tears his mouth away, a gasping breath punching from his lungs. He leverages the heels of his hands against Holden’s hips, jolting barely a foot of space open between them. He lowers his head, searching for a protest, something other than the tortured sound of his breathing bordering on hyperventilation. 

“What is it?” Holden asks, his thumb stroking against Bill’s cheek. 

“Fuck …” Bill whispers, shaking his head. “Holden, we … I-”

“What?” 

Bill lifts a trembling gaze to see Holden gazing curiously at him. God, those pretty blue eyes can suck him in. The way Holden looks at him, he might as well have hung the moon in the sky. How can he say no to that? 

“I …” Bill begins, his voice fading away as Holden takes back the space between them, his hand nuzzling against Bill’s groin. “Jesus …” 

Holden’s breath rasps against Bill’s cheek as he presses closer, unfastening Bill’s pants with one hand, rubbing his hardening dick with the other. 

“It’s okay.” He whispers, his voice carrying a muted groan. “I know what you want.” 

Bill’s eyes fall shut, and light blazes against the back of his eyelids, the hot streak of pleasure. His fingers tighten around Holden’s hips as Holden gets his trousers open, and lets them fall to the floor. The boxers go next, elastic stretched gradually from his hips and away from his twitching cock. Holden leaves them to crumple around Bill’s knees while his grasp turns its attention to Bill’s erection. 

Bill compresses a moan behind the clench of his jaw as Holden’s soft, warm hand curls around him, dragging up and down, bringing his need to a desperate boil. Every fiber of him is crying out for release even as his mind, his logic, and his guilt stagger along behind, slowly getting lost in the billowing dust. He tries one last time to gather his ire, thinking of Nancy - but her face only diverts him farther from reality, reminding him of why he’d let Holden touch him that very first time. 

Bill clutches at Holden’s cheek as the vigorous stroking brings him to a throbbing, aching fullness. His eyes are shut as he smothers Holden with a kiss, but he hears Holden’s delighted moan well enough. Dragging Holden around by the face, he presses him against the door and thrusts his tongue against the languid glide of Holden’s lips. 

Holden’s mouth submits instantly, jaw stretching open beneath Bill’s grasp on his cheek. He pants into Bill’s kiss, open-mouthed, whining. His fingers curl around Bill’s cock, flexing possessively, building need beneath the burning stroke of his palm. 

Bill breaks the kiss with a grunt, and leans back to meet Holden’s gaze. 

The self-assured glint in Holden’s eyes would have been enough to rile anger in Bill’s chest not so long ago, but in this moment, it’s a relief. Holden knows what he wants even if Bill doesn’t, and he knows how to give it. God, he knows so well. 

Bill braces his hand against the door as Holden slides down to his knees, his eyes trained on Bill’s face until he reaches the floor. His fingers are wound loosely around the base of Bill’s cock which is pulsing with overflowing need against the gentle cinch of Holden’s thumb. Leaning forward, he smooths his tongue across his lower lip, and guides the head of Bill’s cock to his mouth. 

Bill’s jaw clenches against the wild sound of need charging up his throat. Every muscle in his body seizes as Holden’s warm, wet lips curl around him, sucking him slowly inward. His chest convulses with a desperate breath, and a whimpered sound scrapes past the purse of his lips. The first wash of sensation goes up and down his body, an immersive, clenching tingle that feels like the verge of orgasm though he knows that relief is still several minutes away. The pleasure plateaus suddenly, and then it’s just the sweet ache and shudder of arousal as Holden’s mouth strokes up and down his throbbing dick. 

“Jesus, fuck …” Bill rasps, his fingers curling through Holden’s hair. 

Holden utters a quiet moan as Bill’s cock goes to the back of his tongue and out again. Though Bill’s fist is in his air, he’s controlling the pace. He goes slow and steady, cutting of Bill’s leaping desperation, stretching it out, making him wait. And Bill lets him because the torture feels as good as the release, the dull, pounding ache even sweeter against his raw nerves now that he’s given in yet again. It’s some small penance, feeling his body on the edge of breaking, every nerve-ending on fire with the need to spill over the edge into climax. 

Holden draws back to the tip, his lips hanging off the saliva-slick, swollen head. His eyes wander upward, catching Bill’s desperate, half-shut gaze. 

“Is it good?” He murmurs, the vibration of his voice sending ripples of pleasure through Bill’s cock. 

Bill shifts closer, feeling his knees shaking. “Fuck … yes.” 

“Say it.” Holden whispers, his fingers tightening around his cock. 

Bill bites against his lower lip as pleasure expands hotter and tighter through his belly. Holden’s choked voice rakes coals across his already raw, aching arousal, and he watches his cock writhe helplessly against Holden’s pink, rubbed lips. 

Holden strokes him gently, and fits his mouth momentarily over Bill’s cock. The pleasure of it lasts seconds as Holden releases him against, sighing a hot breath over inflamed flesh. 

“Tell me.” He says. 

Bill’s gaze hangs onto the thin string of saliva stretching between his lower lip and Bill’s cock head.  _ Fucking Christ.  _ Suddenly, everything hurts and he can’t think straight except for the singular idea of coming all over Holden’s face. 

“It’s good.” He whispers, his voice limping in fractured pieces from his chest. 

Holden sucks him in again, humming a sound of pleasure. His head bobs up and down, easing the building pressure closer and closer toward the edge. 

“Fuck, that’s so good.” Bill moans, his fist curling tighter in Holden’s hair. “Oh God, Holden-”

Holden makes a sound of delight. He sucks down faster, the wet slap of Bill’s cock going in and out of his mouth reverberating past the roar of compounding need in Bill's ears. 

“Fuck, you’re so good.” The words spill eagerly from his mouth now as they seem to be driving Holden just as mad with need as his mouth is doing to Bill. “You’re so good; so fucking good-” 

A choked gasp cuts him off as the building tension peaks into blinding pleasure, the climax hitting him all at once, exploding free from the restraints he’d tried desperately to place on his needs. He jolts his cock free of Holden’s mouth, and grasps at it with his own hand to direct the abundant rain of his release across Holden’s cheeks. 

Holden’s eyes clamp shut, but his mouth stretches open in pure shock as cum jets across his face and dribbles down his cheeks in milky lines. His hands loosely grip Bill’s hips, holding on but not pushing away. 

Momentarily, Bill isn’t thinking of whether Holden is enjoying it or not; he’s lost in the spasmic grip of pleasure, the waves of clutching tingles washing through his whole body, the beautiful sight of his release spurting across Holden’s flushed cheeks and gasping mouth. He strokes himself until the pleasure abates, and his cock is drizzling against the squeeze of his hand, rock hard urgency melting away into the hazy, sensitive aftermath. 

He staggers to the side as Holden’s eyelids crack open. His mouth hangs open as he lifts his gaze to Bill’s, tiny gasps of disbelief tumbling from his throat.

“Stay there.” Bill says. 

He stumbles into the bathroom to retrieve a hand towel, and quickly soaks it with water from the tap. Under the blare of the light above the sink, his face is a gaudy pink, a post-orgasmic mess, the perfect picture of indulgence. He already knows that he’ll go back out into the room, clean Holden up, take him to the bed, and give him the same sweet relief he just experienced. 

Ignoring the glare of disbelief in his own reflection, he carries the damp towel back into the hotel room. 

Holden glances up at him, and Bill takes a brief second to appreciate the look of utter surprise gleaming in the flushed cheeks glistening with his cum. Kneeling down in front of Holden, he braces his fingers under Holden’s chin, and carefully wipes one cheek with the towel. 

Holden doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are fixed on him as Bill cleans every stray drop from his cheeks, chin, and throat. 

When he’s done, Bill sits back against his heels, and stares down at the towel in his hand. 

“Thank you.” Holden whispers. 

Bill closes his eyes, silently cursing himself. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t apologize.” 

Bill’s gaze darts back up to meet Holden’s, surprised by the little smile tugging at the corner of Holden’s mouth. 

Holden leans forward to kiss him, his fingers brushing at Bill’s throat where his pulse is starting to hammer again. The stroke of Holden’s mouth is slow and soft, relishing the connection and the breathless exchange of saliva. His breathing hitches as Bill leans into the kiss, grasping at Holden’s waist to draw him closer. 

Holden’s mouth slides to the corner of Bill’s lips, pressing hot, whimpered breaths into his cheek. “I want you.” 

Bill closes his eyes against those three little words, the plea that undoes him every time. Holden’s genuine need, a thing he had never imagined prior to a month ago, thrusts itself on him, on his quaking desires, his hunger for affection, his need to be touched, to touch someone else and have them enjoy it; and he can’t say no, not this far in. 

Wrapping an arm around Holden’s waist, Bill hauls them off the ground. Holden’s mouth clings to his as they cross the short distance, breaking free only when Bill deposits him on the bed. 

Holden crawls to the middle of the mattress as Bill drags Holden’s suitcase to him. Unzipping the bag, Bill flips the lid open to find the Vaseline sitting on top, in its place, where it always is for convenience. 

Holden unfastens his pants as Bill takes the jar from among Holden’s pressed shirts and trousers, and grips it between both hands. Stripping out of the pants and briefs, Holden discards them over the side of the bed, and reaches for his undershirt. 

Bill closes the suitcase, and puts it on the floor. 

Holden wrestles free of his shirt, and casts Bill a wanton gaze, his cheeks growing pink as the unspoken needs rise up to hum and writhe in the strangled silence of the room. 

Bill crawls across the mattress until he reaches Holden’s legs, curled up against his chest. Gripping one ankle, he draws Holden’s knees apart, and settles between them. 

Holden sinks back against the pillows, his wide eyes trained on the Vaseline seated in Bill’s palm. He draws his legs up against his chest, keeping his knees apart. His cock is rock hard against his stomach, twitching with a panicked life of its own; but Bill is focused on the puckered blush of pink between his ass cheeks, so tight now but eager to be fucked open.

The sound of the lid unscrewing scrapes against the building, breathless tension stretching out between them. 

Holden draws in a hitched breath as Bill casts the lid aside and dips his fingers into the Vaseline. His purses his lips over a whimper, and grasps at the bedsheets. His hips shifts eagerly back and forth, offering a silent, trembling plea. 

Bill glides his slick fingers down the cleft, smearing a generous amount of Vaseline across Holden’s soft, warm flesh. His touch passes over the hole, drawing a choked groan from Holden’s throat. Holden reaches up to grip the headboard of the bed, bracing himself as Bill applies another layer of Vaseline before nudging his fingertips against the opening. 

“Bill …” He begins to moan, hips curling toward the slight pressure of Bill’s fingers. “Oh, please …” 

The pathetic little moan sends a hot bolt of satisfaction through Bill’s blood, driving away any sense of regret that the bathroom mirror had incited. His finger goes into the clenching, enveloping heat of Holden’s body, and Holden cries out in pleasure, his back arching sharply from the sheets. 

It’s too good, better than anything Bill can remember. It feels like a dream that Holden wants him this much, that he’s this desperate for Bill to touch him; but it’s all unraveling right here on these bedsheets where a hundred other strangers have found each other, where the anonymity of these four walls can protect him from the reality of home.

The faded, yellow wallpaper is yet another bland backdrop to this scene of abandon, one of dozens. And it feels like they could go on forever, in every hotel room in the country, in every place that isn’t Virginia, in every perfectly sequestered delusion that this isn’t wrong, that this is good and right, and that they’re meant to be here, touching each other, making each other feel alive after years of solitude and despair. 

Bill is still clinging to that euphoric sense of irresponsibility as Holden rides his fingers through the orgasm that jets in copious, wet strands from his untouched cock. He focuses on Holden’s stomach clenching beneath the trickle of cum, the way his cock lulls and flexes freely, so strung-out with pleasure that it explodes without a single touch. God, it’s beautiful the way he comes like that, so responsive, as if his needs are a bottomless, insatiable pit. 

As Holden melts against the sheets, Bill grabs a handful of tissues from the nightstand to wipe his belly clean. Holden’s half-shut eyes wander across his face as Bill cleans him up again, wiping away the evidence in the balled up kleenex. 

“I’ve been thinking about that for two weeks.” He murmurs, his fingertips coyly trailing the wet corner of his mouth. 

Bill discards the tissues, and rubs a hand over Holden’s knee. “So have I.” 

“Then why do you look like that?” 

“Like what?” 

Holden’s gaze grips him, intense again despite the drowsy haze over them only moments ago. “Angry.” 

Bill releases a weary sigh, and lets his body wilt forward. His head settles against Holden’s chest, and he closes his eyes against the abrupt, disparaging rush of his thoughts. His throat is a knot, but he can’t tell if he’s angry, frustrated, or sad. All he can pin down is a bone-deep exhaustion, the kind of soul-weary heaviness that can’t be vomited free with words. 

Holden’s hand nestles against his nape. The touch is gentle and unaccusing, and Bill savors it while he rests. It feels good though he knows he’s undeserving. The longer he waits the harder it will be, the angrier Holden will be, the more it will break him to leave this behind. But he can’t muster his courage with his head against Holden’s chest, absorbing the freely outstretched empathy, the seemingly unfathomable depths of Holden’s need and affection. 

Ten minutes or more pass before Holden jostles underneath him. 

“We should get cleaned up and go.” He whispers. “We’ll be late.” 

Bill doesn’t want to think about interviewing a psychopathic killer, but he forces himself to move. His body all but cries out in dismay as he disentangles his limbs from Holden’s, and he quiets it a gruff, idealistic reminder: _ sooner or later, he won’t have a choice.  _

~

By the time they get back from the correctional facility, dusk has already begun to transpire across the cloudless, cerulean blue skies. A faint ring of light encircles the horizon as stars peek past the glare of the sinking sun, stretching out pink fingers of light that reflect like cotton candy in the aquamarine of the hotel swimming pool. 

Holden dives in, savoring the initial shock of cold water hitting his flushed skin. He’s been sweating since they landed, in one way or another. The memory of he and Bill’s tryst before the interview is fresh and alive in his mind, but his stomach is a ball of nervous energy that he channels into the stroke of his body through the water. 

He’d ignored Bill’s hesitation when they first arrived because his desires were careening past logical thought at an unstoppable velocity, but now that they’ve quieted, now that they’ve worked and sat across from the killer, now that the desperation is out of the way, he can think clearly. 

Holden emerges at the other end of the pool, and clings to the cool, ceramic lip. Chlorinated water sluices down his cheeks, quickly lapped up by the lingering humidity in the air. Staring across the pool, he watches as Bill carries the pizza they ordered and a six-pack of beer past the swimming pool gate. He’s still in his trousers and dress shirt, having no intention of joining Holden in the pool. 

_ Something is wrong with him.  _ Holden thinks, pedaling his feet slowly through the deep end of the pool. The sex had been as hot and satisfying as every other hookup, but Bill tried to stop him at first, no matter how weakly. If such a response hadn’t sent alarm bells ringing through Holden’s mind, the embrace afterwards had nearly knocked him on his ass. After their trip to Kansas, he’d expected Bill to reinforce the ground rules with an iron fist, perhaps even a bit of anger; instead he’d lapsed into the same wayward affection as Holden with the least amount of resistance. 

Bill carries the pizza box to the patio furniture next to the pool, and takes a seat on one of the lounge chairs. Cracking open a beer bottle, he takes a sip, and glances across the blue ripples of the pool to where Holden is crouched against the other side. 

Holden pushes away from the tile, and swims back to the shallow end of the pool. As he comes up out of the water, Bill leans back against the lounge chair, and lights a cigarette. 

“You look good out there.” He says. His eyes are shaded by his aviator sunglasses, shielding any honesty Holden may have glimpsed. It doesn’t sound suggestive, just flatly observational. 

“Thanks. I competed in highschool.” Holden says, taking the other lounge chair. 

“Wrestling team.” Bill says. 

“Makes sense.” 

Holden takes a piece of pizza, and leans back against the lounge chair. The mindless small talk feels like torture, and he wants to stand up and scream at Bill to just say what he’s thinking already. He doesn’t try to pursue that conversation any further as he takes a bite of the pizza. 

He’s halfway through his second slice before Bill snuffs out the stub of his cigarette, and takes a swig of his beer. 

“The seller of the house Nancy likes accepted our offer.” He says. 

The remark may have sounded abrupt to someone else, but Holden hears it like the middle of a long conversation, one fraught with wrong needs and infidelity. 

“How long until you move in?” Holden asks. What he really wants to ask is  _ how long do we have?  _ But he has a feeling it’s already coming to an end. 

“Next week.” 

Holden takes a drink of the beer Bill had opened for him, despising the taste of it even as it washes away the acid of red sauce and bile. 

“Is that what you really want?” Holden asks. 

Their gazes wander across the placid blue of the pool before meeting somewhere in between. 

Bill tugs his cigarette from his mouth, and blows a cloud of smoke toward the sky. 

Holden awaits an answer, but it doesn’t come. 

They watch the sun go down over the tops of the palm trees swaying in the slight breeze, listening to the ripple of the pool water washing against the tile. When the pizza is gone, they walk quietly back into the hotel, and part ways in the hall at their separate rooms. 

Holden barely sleeps that night thinking of Bill moving back home and trying to be a husband to Nancy again.  _ I have to change his mind.  _ He thinks, but he doesn’t know how to do that, doesn’t know where to start, doesn’t know what right he has to claim something Nancy had a decade before him. He just knows that he must try. This affair has been going on for a little over a month, but to Holden, it feels like some kind of small lifetime, a definition of himself that didn’t exist before Bill touched him; it’s ingrained in his skin now, too close to let go of because Bill has decided to be noble.


	3. Chapter 3

The new house has a big yard, the same as the old one. It’s slightly newer, boasting fresh paint, new hardwood floors, everything refurbished by the seller to attract multiple buyers. Their bid had won out over other couples with children, and in a way, that feels wrong. It’s a family neighborhood with lots of kids around to play with one another. Someone else’s child would have looked forward to the opportunity of a dozen or so friends, but Bill already knows Brian won’t be going anywhere near the playground at the end of the street. 

A week after he gets back from Florida, he and Nancy start the process of moving everything out of storage and into the new house. Brian stays with Jeri since he won’t be of any help putting all of their belongings in the right places. 

As Bill crosses the threshold, the empty house stares back at him, the pair of tall windows on the living room wall like accusatory eyes telling him this opportunity is already wasted on him. The cardboard boxes in his arms are labeled  _ bedroom,  _ and he can’t think about sharing a bed with Nancy again without a sick fist of guilt punching him in the gut. 

They each take separate rooms, unboxing everything and putting it away in silence. Bill touches the little pieces of their lives that were once cherished belongings, now tainted by their mistakes, feeling his heart sinking lower and lower into his stomach with every book and picture frame placed on the shelves. 

By Sunday, they have nearly everything unpacked and put away. The last time they moved, it had taken them more than a week as they went together, room-by-room, distracting one another with conversation and unearthed memories pulled from the moving boxes. Nancy had been carefully stacking the plates in the cupboards when he pressed up behind her, kissing her neck, whispering they should probably christen the place before Brian joined them and the kitchen was no longer an appropriate space to be intimate in. He can still remember her face under the yellow glaze of the light over the kitchen sink, her mouth sliding open as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of her skirt. For a moment, he’d thought they were going to be okay, that all the heartbreak and frustration they’d endured in trying to create a family while his job took him far away was at long last behind them.That was over five years ago, just enough time for the damage to set in like poison seeping down through the grass and dirt to poison the well. 

That evening, as the sun is going down and Bill is in the new kitchen, stacking the plates by himself, the telephone mounted on the wall by the refrigerator interrupts the stifled silence with a piercing ring. He picks it up midway through the third ring, surprised that anyone is calling the new house so soon. He’s only given the number to Ted, Wendy, and Holden, but it still comes as a surprise to him when Holden’s voice reaches him from the other end of the line. 

“Hey, it’s me.” 

Bill cradles the phone against his shoulder, and casts a quick glance through the doorway into the living room where Nancy is arranging photo albums on the lower shelf of the coffee table. 

“What is it?” Bill asks, trying to corral his impatience to keep his voice down. “Is something going on at work?” 

“Did you hear the Gacy interview is being moved up?” Holden asks, eagerness reflected in his perky tone. 

“No.” Bill says, uttering a sigh. “When?” 

“Next week.” 

Bill swallows against the dread ballooning in his stomach. “That soon?” 

“Yes. We’ll have to start preparing Monday morning. This is huge.” Holden says, sounding like a child on Christmas morning. “He is one of the most prolific killers we’ve ever gotten the chance to talk to. More than thirty boys-”

“Holden, I’m kind of in the middle of something.” Bill says, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward of the dull swell of frustration lapping against his temples. “If there isn’t anything else…?” 

“Moving week right?” Holden asks, his voice dropping lower into the same waters of irritation that Bill is treading. 

“Yes. Nancy is in the other room.” 

“And what about next week in Illinois?” 

The question drops into the middle of the conversation like a bolder from the sky, landing there in front of Bill, unavoidable. His hand curls tighter around the telephone as sweat gathers on his palm. He hasn’t said the words like he’d intended to weeks ago, and for Holden, that means the possibility of a hookup in Illinois is still within reach. 

_ It’s over.  _ Two simple words. He can’t fucking say them even as they bubble against the back of his throat, a ticking time bomb shoved deep in his chest. 

“Bill?” Holden’s voice winds softly from the other end, nudging him to speak. 

“I’m trying to make this work.” He says, struggling to keep his voice down. “How many times do I have to tell you that?” 

“I hear you.” Holden says. A deep breath rustles across the line. “But right now, I’m thinking about what you’ve done, not said.” 

Bill presses his eyes shut as a wave of humiliation warms his cheeks. It feels uglier standing here in the new kitchen, looking at the dishware they’ve eaten from a thousand times, marking their brand new lives with the stench of his crude desires. That yellow wallpaper with the little flower motifs in the Florida motel better matched the abrasive, vulgar needs spilling across Holden’s cheeks; here, with his hand braced against the smooth, white paint of the kitchen wall, it reeks of an immoral, unforgivable shortcoming. 

“I’m laying in bed right now …” Holden continues, his voice hoarse and low against the hum of the line. “Undressed … thinking about you.” 

Bill’s fist trembles around the telephone receiver, fighting back the urge to simply slam it back into the cradle and end this raunchy display immediately. 

“Stop.” He whispers as heat flushes his body. 

“I want your cock in my mouth.” Holden whispers, a groan clinging to his words. “I’m getting so hard just thinking about it.” 

Bill draws in a shaking breath.  _ Hang up. Hang up the fucking phone.  _ But he just stands there, listening to Holden’s muted, heavy breathing rustling across the line as he’s no doubt stroking himself to the tone of Bill’s infuriated breaths blasting against the receiver. 

“I want to be on my knees in front of you while you tell me how good it feels. I want-”

“Stop it. Didn’t you fucking hear me?” The words burst from his chest, jarred free by the sudden throb bringing his cock half-hard against his trousers. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

There’s a stretch of silence where all Bill can hear is his own panicked breathing and the rush of blood in his ears. Then Holden sighs, and says, “I know it’s what you want, too. Why are you doing this?” 

“Because, she’s my wife.” Bill says, and even the truth sounds like a lie. “Don’t fucking call me here again.” 

He hangs up the phone, and leans against the wall, drawing in a steadying breath. He reaches down to grind the heel of his hand against his flagging erection, tamping down the rising need with enough pressure to produce a wince of pain. 

“Who was that?” 

He spins around at the sound of Nancy’s voice. She's leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, cradling a bottle of wine against her side while holding a half-full glass in the other. Her mouth is faintly pink with it, and looking at her glazed eyes, he wonders how many she’s already had. 

“It was a … work thing.” Bill says, arranging what he hopes is a neutral expression. 

“You sounded upset.” 

“They’re moving up the Gacy interview.” Bill says, “Ted’s always trying to fasttrack the study.” 

“When?” 

“Next week. I’ll get the details on Monday.” 

“That’s in Illinois, right?” 

“Yeah, I should be home the next day.” 

“Good.” She says, wandering farther into the kitchen. 

He casts a quick glance downward to ensure his erection is entirely curbed before joining her at the island counter. 

She sets the wine bottle on the counter, and takes a sip of the wine. 

“Would you like some?” She asks. 

He turns the label towards him. It’s a red bordeaux from 1971. Ten years old, the perfect age for this type of wine. He remembers buying it a few years back when they were both settling into the realization that twenty years was looming on the horizon. Half their lives spent looking back at each other, a quarter of those wondering if it had been a mistake. Small fractions in between were joyful and happy, but it’s hard to remember now that Nancy is drinking their anniversary wine two months before the actual date, as if the number barely matters anymore. 

“Sure.” He says. 

She finds another glass in the cabinet, and pours him a drink. He takes the glass by the stem, and swirls the dark wine, smelling deeply fermented and rich. He doesn’t drink, knowing once the bottle is gone maybe a little piece of them will be drained away with it. 

“The living room is done.” Nancy says, “So is your study.” 

“I’m done in here.” He says, his gaze tracking its way around the cabinets. 

“So, that’s it. Brian can come with us tomorrow?” 

Bill nods. His palm is damp against the wineglass. The stilted conversation winds like a rope around his ribs, pulling harder and harder. The honeyed lilt of Holden’s voice trickles across the back of his mind, and he wants to run out of the kitchen and across town, show him what he gets for being such a smartmouthed little-

“I was thinking about the last time we moved.” Nancy says, interrupting Bill’s distracted thoughts. 

“Yeah.” He mutters, focusing on the deep red of the wine. 

“We were happy then, weren’t we?” 

His gaze drifts across the island to find Nancy’s, wide and glazed beneath the ceiling lamp. Her mouth trembles, and she glances away, pursing her lips. 

“Yes … we were.” He says, wondering if they’re both just trading lies now. 

She sets her glass down on the counter, and wraps her arms around her middle. 

“Tell me it’s going to be okay.” She whispers, her voice shaking. “Tell me  _ we’re  _ going to be okay.” 

A sigh winds from his lips. He can’t give her what she wants, so he circles the island and puts his hand on her shoulder. She turns into the touch, pressing her forehead against his chest. He can feel the tremble rippling through her, suppressed tears threatening to break free. Her arms wind around his waist, slowly at first and then grasping at the fabric of his shirt to pull him close. 

Bill presses his eyes shut as the festering guilt in the back of his mind erupts into clear focus. Still, he holds onto her the way he’s been holding on for weeks now, clinging to her - the idea of their marriage - like a lifeline to save him from sinking below the waves and letting that thing in his chest that wants Holden more than anything consume him. He keeps thinking that if he just holds on long enough, he’ll remember why they fell in love, why he’s spent half his life with her, why their love is something real and what he feels for Holden is wrong and grotesque; but now, as she trembles against him, her wine-red mouth coming up from his shirt to press a desperate kiss against his neck, nothing feels more wrong than her body pressed to his. 

He sinks a hand into her hair as her mouth moves fast and sloppy up his throat and against his cheek to ensnare his faintly protesting lips. The kiss lands hard and graceless, her drunken mouth smearing his with wine and desperation. 

He stumbles forward as she pulls him against her, purposefully pinning her body between him and the island counter. 

The sudden rush of heat in his blood doesn’t feel quite like need, but rather borders on anger that she could do this to him; that she could try to replicate that night in the old house when the spark was still there and this felt good and reassuring, like they still knew how to please each other. The fire is long burnt out, leaving behind a cold, blue hue; and she just feels like an unpleasant weight against him, her fingers tracking icily over the ground Holden has already covered, her mouth taking up the breaths still stirred by the phone call minutes before. 

He tears his mouth away from hears, rasping her name in a twisted plea, “Nance …” 

“What? What is it?” She whispers, her fingers tugging at the buttons of his shirt. 

“Wait …” He chokes out as one hand falls quickly down his chest to find his groin. 

His hips leap away from her touch as if burned, and she retracts her hand, her breath blustering hot and disoriented against his cheek. “What? It’s been so long, Bill; don’t tell me you don’t want to ..” 

He breaks free of her embrace, and takes a stumbled step backwards. His heavy breathing borders on panic. Can she see the red stain of guilt beneath the flush on his cheeks, the truth shining out in his eyes even if he remains stubbornly silent? 

She leans against the island counter, her jaw clenched against a growing tremble. She glances away, her fingertips pressing against her forehead. “You can’t be serious.” 

“It’s late.” He whispers, “I’m exhausted. So are you.” 

“Don’t try to blame it on that.” She says, pushing away from the counter to glare at him. “You know, while you’ve been out, traipsing across the country, catching the bad guys, I’ve been here - at home, trying my hardest with Brian. I have needs and wants too, Bill. When was the last time they were satisfied?” 

He glances away, knowing well enough he doesn’t have an answer. 

“That’s right. You don’t even remember.” She whispers, acid drenching each word. “You don’t remember how to listen to me or how to talk to me, but I thought certainly you would remember how to fuck me.” 

Bill’s gaze swings back to hers as the words hit like a physical blow to the chest.  _ Christ, is this what it’s come down to?  _ He thinks, but he doesn’t have the will to argue the jab at his manhood. 

“We’re both going to regret this in the morning.” He says, “We’re both tired. It’s been a long day. Let’s just leave it at that.” 

She nods, her mouth pursing against a fresh wave of tears. “Fine.” 

“I need a cigarette.” He says.

He leaves her standing there in the kitchen as he goes out onto the back porch. He lights up and takes a drag, but the mellowing relief of nicotine barely touches the tangle of emotion knotted hard in his chest. 

Their new life begins with a whimper, and the rotten smell of guilt, regret, and a long-dead love decaying beneath the floorboards. 

~

Bill stays on the porch for two hours, long enough to ensure that Nancy will go to bed without him. As his last cigarette burns to stub between his fingers, he heads back inside to find all the lights shut off, the looming corners of the house utterly silent. He makes his way through the unfamiliar darkness to the couch, and falls into a fitful, exhausted sleep. 

The next morning, he wakes on his side, his shoulder pinned uncomfortably and his arm dead asleep. He stumbles into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. The wine-stained glasses from last night are in the sink, standing side-by-side like the last vestiges of an ill-fated reconciliation. The emptied bottle is in the trash can. Bill suppresses a sigh as he leans down to pull the bottle from the otherwise empty can, and gazes at the label for a long minute. A sudden bolt of anger lances his chest, though not at Nancy and all her valiant attempts to put them back together; he's angry with himself, and Holden for never listening when he says he's trying to fix his marriage, for always pulling him back in, for being too kind and beautiful and adoring and all the things Bill wants but can't have. 

The empty bottle hits the bottom of the trash can with a thud. 

Bill gets his coffee, and leaves for work without breakfast, not having the appetite nor the urge to stop somewhere along the route to Quantico to pick up food. When he arrives in the basement, the BSU headquarters is still fairly quiet. Gregg has his headphones on transcribing, and Wendy's office door is shut. Holden's desk is vacant, but as Bill makes his way across the room, he glimpses Holden in one of the offices being used for storage. 

With his back turned to the door, Holden doesn't notice Bill's presence until the door swings shut behind him. 

"Bill." He says, his eyes going wide in the semi-darkness of the room. His expression is one of alarmed innocence, but he knows exactly what's coming. 

"We need to talk." Bill says, closing the space between them to assert his height over Holden.

Holden sets the file aside, and cocks his head, curiously. "Okay. About what?" 

"You know." Bill says, his mouth curling in disgust. "You remember a month or so back when we had our conversation about boundaries?" 

"Yes, the ground rules." Holden says, enunciating the words with clear distaste.

"Yes, and you'll also remember that we said no talking about it at home or work. It stays on the road. So what the fuck was that call last night?" 

"I apologize." Holden says, tersely. "It won't happen again, okay?" 

He turns back to the shelf of case files, and Bill grabs him by the arm as the anger he'd been carrying in his chest since last night erupts with force. Holden gasps as Bill shoves him up against the shelving unit, and plants a hand in the middle of his chest. 

"No, not okay." Bill growls, feeling the heat of his own breath rushing against Holden's mouth and back again. "I want a fucking explantion. What the hell were you thinking?" 

Holden's gaze wanders over Bill's hand pushed into his breastbone, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt before making a slow circuit back up to absorb the enraged tremble in Bill's jaw and the fire spitting from his eyes. 

"I was thinking you're making a mistake." 

Bill shifts closer, the heel of his hand grinding into Holden’s chest so hard that he feels the hitched swell of his lungs. Their mouths are inches apart, and a little while ago that would have been enough to make him lose all sense of self-control; but his anger is stronger than his desire this time, just enough to push the hazy orange glow of need below the red burn of rage. 

“Do you want the truth or a lie?” Holden challenges, unrepentant despite Bill’s displeasure at his answer. 

“I want you to fucking stop.” Bill whispers, “I want you to shut your fucking mouth when I tell you, and listen to the rules as they were very clearly laid out.” 

“ _ Rules _ . Listen to yourself.” Holden says, pushing back against Bill’s weight. “This isn’t grade school, Bill. We’re not children. We’re grown adults, and I don’t know about you, but I know exactly what I want. I’m just waiting for you to stop dicking around.” 

Bill takes a step back, hearing the rush of his own breath like a gathering windstorm. 

“It isn’t that simple.” He says, the words spilling past his lips without forethought, or any kind of determination. 

“I get it. She’s your wife.” Holden says, cautiously leaning away away from the shelf. “But, you have to ask yourself: are you holding on because you still love her, or because you’re just afraid to let it go?” 

“I’m not afraid.” Bill says, casting him a sidelong glare. “Stop trying to psychoanalyze me, and next time, just listen when I tell you to stop.” 

Holden’s eyes cling to Bill’s, a silent defiance glinting in the soft blue. Bill draws in a shuddering breath, feeling his chest constrict against the urge to kiss that mouth until it stops pouting, to make it cry in pleasure instead of mutter with annoyance. He turns to leave the room, afraid of what he’ll do next if he stays any longer. 

Holden’s hand on his arm stops him, though it isn’t forceful or demanding. It just rests there, the warmth of his palm absorbing through the fabric of Bill’s shirt. 

“It was your first night in the new house.” Holden whispers, his voice low but steady. 

“Yeah.” Bill says, the response grinding from somewhere deep in his chest, pain packed into the tiny syllable. 

“How was it?” 

Bill closes his eyes, thankful that his face is turned away from Holden’s to hide the bitter honesty grimacing across his mouth. A clipped sigh slips past the clench of his jaw. 

“I slept on the couch.” 

Holden’s fingers tighten incrementally around Bill’s arm. Bill hears him draw in a slow breath in the cramped space. 

“Please, just think about it.” He whispers, “Think about how you feel when you’re with me … and then how you feel when you’re there - with her.” 

Silence swallows up the fragile question like a glass suspended in the air, awaiting a brief fall and quick breakage. Bill wants to turn around and slam him up against the wall again just for implying that what they’re doing could ever, in any way compare to his marriage; but as much as he clings to the concept, his relationship, though backed by twenty years, couldn’t withstand the argument that would come next. Instead, he twists his arm free of Holden’s grasp, and yanks the door of the storage room open. The BSU bullpen is still quiet, almost peaceful in the early hour, indifferent to the conflict raging between them and the gradual entropy of his marriage disintegrating to ash. 

~

Whether intentionally or not, Bill stays late at work the next three days. Two of those nights Nancy is already in bed before he gets home, and he takes the couch. The third she’s awake, but Brian is in the bed with her. She sleepily asks if he’s coming, and he says he’ll be in soon. When he comes back an hour later, both of them are fast asleep. He wanders down the hallway to Brian’s room, and lays down on the narrow, single mattress. 

It’s nicer than the couch, but he’s surrounded by his son’s belongings, his toys, and clothes. To anyone else, it would look like a normal little boy’s room; but the boy who sleeps here isn’t normal, and he’s barely played with his toys in months. 

Bill stretches his arm over his eyes, shutting out his view of Brian’s room. Purposefully turning his thoughts away from his son means turning them toward Nancy, and inevitably Holden. 

They’d spent the past three days working together as amicably as one would expect from co-workers. Wendy and Gregg certainly couldn’t tell the difference, and if they did notice the undercurrent of tension between them, they could undoubtedly chalk it up to a disagreement over a work-related matter. Despite their joint effort in putting together the unit, barely a day passes in which they don’t have a difference of opinion about a profile or terminology. 

_ That should say something about the future of our relationship. _ Bill thinks, grimly. He’s never thought about what they’re doing as a “relationship,” let alone one with a future, but his focus slips away into the things they do agree on, like how good Holden is at sucking dick. 

Bill suppresses a sigh as his scattered thoughts stubbornly cling the memories he’s been over a hundred times before. The brief hours in motel rooms across the country are like a worn book between his hands, every page dog-eared and memorized. He can remember the specific sprawl of his body across the bed sheets as Holden’s thumb stroked his hip and his mouth went down from a high-rise hotel in New York, and the rug burns on Holden’s knees from that god-awful carpet in the hot box motel room in Arizona. The newer ones are sharper, like bits of glass pressing into his skin, coming easily to his recollection. His cum going all over Holden’s face comes full with texture and smell, every detail ingrained into his mind. 

Those moments are like honey sliding sweet and easy between his fingers, no friction just pleasure. They never disagree when they’re behind closed doors nothing but skin standing between them and release. Nothing has ever felt so good, and he’s afraid nothing else will ever compare. 

He doesn’t sleep for a long time, and when rest finally comes, it’s in restless, broken hours that fade in and out until dawn. He wakes the next morning to the sunrise glinting shades of pink and purple past the blinds. A glance at his watch tells him he won’t be beating anyone to work today. 

He sits on the edge of Brian’s bed for a long minute, staring into the carpet. It’s Thursday. Tomorrow, he’ll go to therapy with Brian and Nancy in the morning before heading to the airport for the Gacy interview in Illinois. If he intends to adhere to his own rules, it will be his only chance to explain to Holden why he can’t continue their affair. The interview looms ahead like a gun pressed to the back of his head, warning him that if he doesn’t end it now, he never will. 

Bill shuffles down the hall to the kitchen where Nancy is making breakfast. Brian is seated at the table, swinging his legs absently while his gaze focuses on the window to the back yard. 

“Good morning.” Nancy says, her gaze shifting between him and the stovetop. 

“Morning.” 

He watches her from the corner of his eye as he wanders into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. 

“You didn’t come in last night.” Nancy says. 

“I didn’t want to disturb you and Brian.” 

“There’s plenty of room.” 

He focuses on stirring sugar into his cup as she turns to face him, her arms crossing tautly against her chest. 

“Do you think you’ll be home late again tonight?” 

“I don’t know. I hope not.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, and catches her glare, the silent quiver of her jaw fighting back an irritated retort. Suddenly, he wishes she would just scream at him all the things she’s been thinking and feeling. Maybe this moment would feel better if he had let her curse him out for not being interested in sex their first night here. Maybe every moment between now and their last conversation before he left for Atlanta that last time would have been improved a hundred fold if she’d just screamed at him instead of leaving in his absence. 

“Can you please just try?” She asks instead, sounding perfectly polite. 

He nods. “I’ll try.” 

Conversation is stifled over breakfast. Somehow, Brian has the most to say when he abruptly shouts out, “I’m full!” He leaps out of his chair without being excused, and darts down the hallway to his room. Neither of them give the effort to chase him down and reprimand him. 

Bill puts his empty plate in the sink, and slides his cigarette pack from his pocket as he heads for the door. Nancy trails behind him, her arms wrapped loosely around her middle. 

“Have a good day.” She says. 

“You too.” 

He hesitates a moment before dropping a kiss on her cheek. Her fingers press against the spot his lips touched as he rushes out the door, muttering the fact that he’s going to be late. 

~

Looking through the one-way glass window into the playroom of Dr. Moritz’s office, Bill can’t help but be reminded of an interrogation room. His son is alone on the other side of the glass, playing absently with a toy dump truck, his solitary behavior speaking volumes about his state of mind. If Bill was at work, he’d be thinking analytically, picking apart the minutest gestures and glances, wondering what this strange little kid has to hide; but, he’s here, in a child therapist’s office, and that’s his son, yet another part of his life fracturing into broken, helpless pieces. 

Dr. Moritz turns away from the window to observe Bill and Nancy with an intuitive gaze. 

“How’s he doing at home?” 

“I thought we were getting better with the bed-wetting, but he’s done it almost every night since we got into the new house.” Nancy says, her fingers pressed anxiously below her mouth. 

“It could just be the move.” Dr. Moritz says. “It’s difficult for children to adjust to new surroundings, especially if they are already experiencing some emotional upheaval. I’d give it another week or so before becoming truly concerned.” 

“Okay.” Nancy says, “He does seem to be communicating more.” 

“Good.” Dr. Moritz says. He doesn’t hesitate before diverting the conversation back towards them. “Have you considered my proposal about the counseling?” 

“We’ve considered it.” Bill says, putting a hand on Nancy’s lower back. 

He feels her spine stiffen against the slight pressure, and he hopes the therapist can’t see the flinch that radiates up into her shoulders. 

“We’re in the new house together.” Nancy says, before Dr. Moritz can press for more. “I think it’s going well so far.” 

Bill averts his gaze to the window, focusing on the fingerprints smeared in desperate whorls by a dozen other concerned parents.  _ We slept in the same bed last night for the first time in months.  _ He thinks, trying to imagine Dr. Moritz’s face if he verbally offered that statement up as some kind of standard for their progress. The bar is low, nearly touching the ground. 

He’d come in late from work last night though he’d promised not to, and spent an hour unwinding with a glass of whiskey before dragging himself through the bedroom door. Nancy was still awake when he crawled under the sheets. She’d kept her eyes shut, but he could tell by the way she was breathing that she wasn’t asleep. They laid in silence for what felt like years before she rolled over and drifted off to sleep. He could almost see the wall piling up between them, brick by damning brick shuttering off any kind of dialogue or intimacy either of them might have had the ill-conceived idea of initiating. 

Bill’s hand retreats from Nancy’s back as she wanders closer to the window, her fingertips layering over the grimy prints illuminated beneath the buttery glaze of the dim ceiling lamp. 

“I think it’s helping Brian, having Bill around more.” She says, a tired, disingenuous thread winding beneath the manufactured positivity in her voice. 

Dr. Moritz’s gaze wanders back and forth between them.  _ Does he know they’re lying?  _ Bill can hardly find the will to care anymore. As if battling his own guilt twenty-four hours a day hadn’t already broken him enough, just crawling into bed with Nancy last night had all but sapped the last of his fortitude from his chest. 

“That’s good to hear.” Dr. Moritz says, at length. “And what about the two of you?” 

“We’re fine.” Bill says, “We’re working on it.” 

The session comes to an end with a few more suggestions for Brian from Dr. Moritz. They collect Brian from the playroom, and head for the front door after confirming next week’s appointment with the receptionist. It seems years away with Illinois standing between now and then. 

Bill lights a cigarette as they step out onto the sidewalk. 

Nancy leads Brian to the car by the hand, and helps him into the backseat. Once he’s strapped in, she pushes the door shut and turns back to Bill. The hot, early August air is thick and still, urging a rosy flush to her cheeks. She squints against the blare of the sun, her gaze as cutting as the unobstructed sunlight. 

“Are you coming with us back to the house?” She asks. 

“Holden’s picking me up.” Bill says, “Our flight’s in two hours.” 

She nods, her mouth pursing against her teeth. “Okay.” 

Bill plucks his cigarette from his mouth, and watches as pieces of ash dwindle towards the sidewalk. Something sick and swollen squirms in the pit of his stomach, as if his guilt has become a living thing with teeth, with intuition. 

“What is it?” He asks, though he already has an idea. 

“What do you mean?” She asks, her chin lifting defiantly. 

“Did I say something in there that upset you?” He asks, jabbing a thumb at the office. 

She glances away, her jaw clenching. She’s searching for a reason not to say it right here on the sidewalk in front of random pedestrians, but he’d rather her say it here than at home when he doesn’t have the opportunity to leave and go somewhere far away at the end of the conversation. 

“‘We’ve considered it’?” She says, her mouth curling in a mirthless smile. “ _ I’ve _ considered it, Bill. Not we. Me. Just me.” 

“You know how I feel about counseling. I just don’t think that someone else getting involved in the middle of things will help. It’s a complicated situation that-”

“It’s not that complicated, Bill.” She says, “You just can’t admit when you need help.” 

Bill draws in a deep breath, hesitantly meeting her gaze. “I’m trying here, Nance; I really am.” 

“Are you?” She whispers, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Because I don’t see it. You come home late every night. You barely talk to me. You stay up drinking, and leave before I’m even awake. You don’t interact with Brian. You care about work more than you care about being at home.” 

“Look, I’m sorry I’ve been late getting home this week.” He says, spreading his hands helplessly. It tastes sour just saying it, but the words are prepared and easy, better than the truth. “We’ve been preparing for this interview with Gacy, and it’s possible we could get called out for another consult. I’m doing the best I can.” 

“Really?” She asks, her arms wrapping tightly around her waist. “This is your best, Bill?” 

He glances away from her scathing glare, and drops his cigarette to the ground. It rolls beneath his heel, and he grinds it into the pavement. 

Nancy sniffs quietly, and he looks back up to see her pressing her knuckles to the corner of her eye, stemming tears. 

“I don’t know.” She whispers. 

“Don’t know what?” 

“I just wonder …” She says, the words tearful and halting. “I can’t stop thinking about the first night in the house when I kissed you, and … you- … Am I really that unappealing to you, or is it something else?” 

The question settles into the humid, morning air, dragging his heart all the way down into his stomach, his stomach down to his feet. A gradual nausea winds around his belly, curling tighter and tighter like a python clamping down on its prey. The insinuation hangs there, muffled yet blatant, just awaiting verbalization to truly cut him down. In this moment, he almost wishes she would say it so that he doesn’t have to, so she can relieve him of his guilt without his ever having to say a word; but as soon as he thinks it, his mind revolts against the idea that his secret could be laid bare here in broad daylight, their son a few feet away in the car, the truth floating up toward the open sky. 

“Like what?” He whispers, the question unraveling from his mouth despite the abject fear chilling his belly that she might answer it truthfully. 

Her gaze shifts back to his, glimmering like a mirage in the baking heat. Her mouth quivers as if swallowing back the truth rushing up with the bile. 

“Like … is there someone else?” 

Bill can’t stop himself from looking away from her, though he knows the very reaction is cause enough for her to declare her assumption the truth. The thumping sound of his heartbeat rises in his ears, and he can feel the trickle of sweat wandering down his breastbone in the unforgiving, August heat. The breeze shifts only slightly, stirring against the back of his neck where everything holds tense in horror. Suddenly, he feels cold and clammy despite the humidity, and his stomach grips with an acidic nausea that all but threatens to spill his breakfast onto the sidewalk. 

He slowly lifts his gaze, and she’s staring at him boldly, unflinching. 

“Nancy.” Her name wobbles from his throat in a raspy plea. He wants to say no, to beg her to believe him, but the words are stuck at the back of his throat, and his mind is abruptly filled with images of Holden, stripped down, underneath him, his mouth around Bill’s cock, his face dripping with release. 

“Who is it?” She whispers, her face twisting as harsh tears rush to her eyes. “Is it someone I know?” 

He stares at her, his mouth dry and stiff. He can’t come up with a reply, not the truth or a lie; nothing. Somehow, he’d never expected this moment to come. 

“It has to be someone you work with.” She continues, her fingertips pressing anxiously against her forehead as conclusions race behind her eyes. “You’re never home, you’re always there. Do I know her?” 

A faint buzzing rises in his ears. The sidewalk and office fronts around them fade into a two-dimensional backdrop as if none of this is real, and they’re alone on a stage, facing one another down with no pretense in between to soften the blow of cruel reality. 

“Tell me.” She whispers, a tear breaking free from her eyelashes.

When he fails to respond again, she takes a swift stride across the pavement between them, and thrusts the heel of her hand into his chest.

“Say something!” She demands, tears streaking down her cheeks. “I want to know! Tell me who it is, Bill. Just tell me!” 

He grasps her shoulders as she crumples against him, her body wracked with tears. He closes his eyes, swallowing against the bitter taste of regret lumping at the back of his throat. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, and this time he means it. 

She wipes at her cheeks before twisting out of his grasp. She takes a stumbling step back, her red, glazed eyes regarding him with sudden steel. 

“Is it Wendy?” 

“No.”

She swipes at the tear trailing from the corner of her eye, streaking mascara in its wake. He can see the thoughts turning behind her eyes, searching through faces, eliminating, working closer and closer toward the truth. 

“Then who?” She presses. 

Bill stiffens as the sound of a car pulling along the curb behind him draws his attention from Nancy’s tear-stained face. He hears the gears shift into park, the engine idling. He tells himself not to look back, but he does, his gaze sweeping the curb to see Holden’s blue Nova matching the cloudless blue of the sky. Holden’s gaze meets his through the windshield, and a concerned frown creases his brow as this distraught scene plays out in front of him. Bill’s stare lingers far too long, caught somewhere between disbelief that this conversation is happening, and relief that Holden is here to take him from it. Then, the two are one in the same as he turns back to Nancy, and she sees the bare, loathsome truth reflected in his eyes, in the stunned silence that follows. 

She blinks against fresh tears as the thought processes, taking root in her mind, resolving into something irreversible, unforgettable. 

“No …” She whispers, her gaze darting back and forth between him and Holden’s car. “No, that can’t be …” 

“Nancy, wait!” 

He catches her by the arm just as she spins around to flee into the car, and she whirls back around, her face etched with horror. 

“Let me go.” She cries, her voice mangled with tears. She twists her wrist against his grasp, and breaks free, backpedaling toward the car. “Don’t touch me!” 

“Nancy, wait. It’s not what you’re thinking.” He pleads, holding his hands out to her, “It’s not … I can explain; just give me a minute to explain.” 

She shakes her head, jostling tears down her cheeks. “I have to go.” 

She darts around the back of the car, and yanks the driver’s door open. As she stumbles behind the wheel, he follows after her, catching the top of the door just before she can pull it shut. 

“Don’t do this.” He says, bending to glimpse her tear-streaked profile and quivering mouth, her gaze fixed on the windshield. 

“Let go.” She says, her voice shaking. Her fingers are white-knuckled around the door handle, pulling it towards her and threatening to close his fingers in the door. 

“Nancy-”

“Let me go, Bill.” She snaps, her gaze jarring from the road ahead to cast him a scathing glare. “ _ Now. _ ” 

He takes a staggered step back, allowing the door to slide free of his grasp and slam shut. The car engine coughs to life, and Nancy steps on the accelerator, whisking the car past him with a faint screech of rubber against asphalt. He catches a glimpse of Brian in the backseat, his gaze turned indifferently toward the blue skies overhead, his expression lax and unperturbed as if the brief argument hadn’t meant a thing to him. As the station wagon surges to the end of the street, and takes a sharp turn towards home, Bill feels his heart, as if attached to it by string, ripped from his chest and trailing along behind it. 

The car disappears around the corner, and Bill slowly turns to see the door of the Nova open, and Holden step out. Their gazes connect from across the sidewalk, and Bill trudges toward him with his head down. As he reaches the car, he pulls his cigarettes from his shirt pocket. 

“What was that about?” Holden asks as Bill approaches. 

“Nothing that concerns you.” Bill says, yanking the passenger door open. “Come on, we’ve got a flight to catch.” 

The car doors slam shut behind them, and they sit in silence for a long moment. Holden pulls away from the curb, wisely choosing not to press Bill any further. Rolling the window down, Bill desperately smokes his cigarette, searching for some relief in the taste of tobacco. It comes slowly, though no slower than the deflation in his chest as the expectation to perform, to fix his marriage disintegrates.  _ No more lies.  _ He thinks, and despite the wreckage already stretching out in front of him, it feels like some kind of respite. 


	4. Chapter 4

Holden endures the entirety of the flight to Illinois in silence even as a dozen questions swarm and pulsate in the cramped arena of his skull. He peeks discreet glances at Bill, trying to decipher the truth behind the rigid set of his jaw and the black sheen of his sunglasses that remain stubbornly perched on his nose throughout the trip. Cigarette smoke pours ceaselessly from the downturned slope of his lips, yet another indication of his state of mind. 

Holden rehashes the brief exchange he’d witnessed in his head. He hadn’t been able to hear what they were saying, but he’d seen the horror and rage in Nancy’s eyes, the way she’d fled to the car and Bill had chased her down, begging her not to go. If he’d seen what he believes he did, he might have been an inadvertent witness to the final nail going into the coffin of their marriage. What such a thing could mean for Holden, he’s unsure, but he doesn’t have a positive sense based on Bill’s cold reticence. 

When they arrive in Illinois, Bill drives them straight to the hotel. The stifled silence continues while the radio plays at low volume, seeping the crooning melodrama of Sammy Davis, Jr. into the strained tension building between them. Holden glances down at the floor where his suitcase lays between his feet. He’d packed the Vaseline, perhaps too confidently. He knows Bill well, but this rigid silence reads more like anger than repressed need, and maybe the last thing he would want right now is Bill touching him with the emotional wreckage undoubtedly crashing through his chest. 

At the hotel, Bill strides ahead of Holden to the front desk. 

“Good afternoon.” The clerk greets them with a warm smile. “Welcome to the Crest Hill Inn & Suites. Are you checking in?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Bill says, “We have reservations for Ford and Tench.” 

She turns to the computer, and searches through the reservations before frowning. “I have one reservation for Holden Ford. What was the other name?” 

Bill gives a clipped sigh. “Bill Tench. It was booked in advance, but the reservation had to be moved up. My colleague should have had everything rearranged on Monday.” 

“Let me check one more thing.” She clerk says, managing a smile. 

Bill casts Holden a weary, sidelong glance as she searches through, her mouth compressing with concern. She begins to shake her head as the list of reservations yields nothing. 

“I’m so sorry about this.” She says, “I’m not able to find the reservation.” 

“It’s okay.” Holden interjects, “We can share the room, right, Bill?” 

Bill’s glare radiates frustration in Holden’s direction before shifting to the clerk. “Is there any way to book another room?” 

“I’m sorry, sir. We have a car show in town this week. I’m afraid the hotel is fully booked.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Bill mutters, rubbing at his forehead. 

“It’s okay.” Holden says, casting the clerk an assuring glance as she appears to blanche at Bill’s reaction. “We’ll be okay. We’re only in town for a day.” 

“I’m terribly sorry.” She says, “Would you like to speak with the manager?” 

“No, that won’t be necessary.” Holden says. 

“Okay. Can I please see your ID to check you in?” 

He withdraws his badge from his pocket, and passes it across the desk to her. As her gaze falls on his FBI credentials, her cheeks flush deeper red. “The FBI? Oh my God, I’m very sorry for this mix-up. Sometimes things fall through the cracks when changing reservations, and we’ve just been so overwhelmed with this car show that someone must have-”

Bill’s annoyed sigh interrupts her babbling apology, and he turns to walk away from the desk, tugging a cigarette free from his pocket. 

“Excuse my partner.” Holden says, lowering his voice. “It won’t kill him to share a room with me even if he thinks it will.” 

The girl smiles despite the tearful panic in her eyes. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes. Don’t worry about it.” 

She finishes checking them in, and Holden scans the lobby to see Bill waiting for him by the elevator. As he approaches, Bill turns to jab the button for the elevator, and regards Holden with a tense gaze. 

“I hope you didn’t put Gregg up to this.” He says, blowing smoke forcefully past his lips. 

“Of course not.” Holden says, “It’s a coincidence.” 

“Well, you could try not looking so fucking pleased about it.” 

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open before Holden can offer a retort. The elevator is crowded with older men in tweed pants and golf shirts, the overflow from the car show, giving them little opportunity to spar about the reservation any further. When they reach their floor, Holden leads them down the hall to the room matching the number on the key. They pass a cluster of men deeply involved in conversation about whether Fords or Buicks are better, every single one of them indifferent to the two of them disappearing into the same room together. 

The door slides shut behind them, and Holden surveys the room. Bill shuffles to his side, muttering a sound of distaste. 

“One bed? Really?” 

“At least it’s a king.” Holden says. 

Bill drops his suitcase to the floor, and scrubs a hand over his face. “This is just great.” 

Holden puts his own suitcase on the floor, and wanders around the bed to peek out the window at the view of the street below. An undercurrent of tension and fear prickles the back of his neck, drowning out the thought of any kind of casual conversation to fill the terse silence. A few weeks ago they would have been on each other the moment the door closed on their heels. He would have already been face down on the bed with his pants stripped down just far enough to accomodate Bill’s hands, his backside lathered with the oily glaze of Vaseline, his cock halfway to orgasm at the simple brush of Bill’s fingers against him. 

But that was before Bill decided to move back in with Nancy, obstinately ignoring reality for a pieced together fiction that he might be able to save his marriage. From the looks of it, he’d failed spectacularly, but that idea is already too far gone for him to plunge back into bed with Holden immediately. 

Bill sinks down onto the edge of the bed, and loosens his tie. Propping his cigarette on the lip of the ash tray on the nightstand, he watches the smoke curl into the air between them as the silence stretches out further and further like a rubberband about to snap under the pressure. 

Holden shoves his hands into his pockets, and stares at the cobwebs collecting on the outside of the windowpane. 

“Do you want to go over the Gacy files one more time before we head to the correctional facility?” He asks, quietly. 

“We’ve been reviewing since Monday.” Bill says, “I think we’ve got it.” 

“One more time couldn’t hurt.” 

Bill’s gaze drifts from the haze of cigarette smoke to meet Holden’s pointed stare. Holden draws in a shaky breath as Bill’s eyes settle on him, the weight of them like hooks sinking into flesh and bone, dragging away pretense to expose his needs in all their bloated, pulsing entirety. Emotion bolts hard at the back of his tongue as the tangled web of need and frustration winding through his chest rises up, lashing out against the barrier strung out like landmines between them. 

“Does she know?” Holden whispers. 

Bill’s gaze darts away towards the carpet, focusing on the patch of light streaming through the curtains to illuminate the toupe fibers. 

“Is that what it was about?” Holden presses, turning fully from the window to face him.

“Yeah.” Bill says, his voice hollow with exhaustion. “I don’t know what I’m going home to once this interview is over.” 

“I’m sorry.” Holden says, his gaze joining Bill’s on the carpet. 

“Are you?” Bill asks, defensively. “I don’t think you are.” 

Holden closes his eyes against a wave of guilt. A week ago he would have been rejoicing that Bill is finally letting go of the idea of fixing things with Nancy; but now that the possibility is here, the cruel reality of it laid bare in the exhausted lines on Bill’s face, he can’t scrape together an ounce of satisfaction. 

“I am.” He says, tentatively glancing up to see Bill rising from the bed, swaggering toward him with his hands curled into fists at his sides. “Do you think I enjoy seeing you like this?” 

“I don’t know, Holden; maybe you do.” Bill says, his mouth curling. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” 

“Yes, but … not like this.” Holden says, swallowing hard as Bill closes the space between them, his chest rising with hitched, angry breaths. 

“How else did you think it would happen?” Bill asks, “Honestly? Our twenty year anniversary is coming up in two months. We nearly made it. It was never going to be easy.” 

“It would have been easier if you hadn’t lied to her.” Holden says, “You can’t possibly blame me for all of this.” 

“This could have ended after Colorado.” Bill says, his voice rising with trembling anger. “I wanted to end it, but you sat there in the car and told me how much you fucking needed it, practically begging me for it. You-”

“You wanted it just as much as I did.” Holden says, his mouth slipping open in disbelief. “I mean, Jesus Christ, Bill - you’re the one who ordered me to the bathroom, and kissed me after I had the panic attack in Colorado. You’re the one who came up with the ground rules so you could keep fucking me while trying to-”

Holden’s retort fractures off into a gasp as Bill pushes him up against the wall, his breath bearing down hot and enraged across Holden’s cheeks. 

“You fucking did this to me.” Bill whispers past clenched teeth, the heel of his hand digging into Holden’s shoulder. “You did. You kissed me that night at your apartment. You started it. I told you it was a mistake, and you didn’t fucking listen. I’m not like that, Holden; I’m not a fucking-”

“A what?” Holden interrupts, shoving his hands into Bill’s chest, and breaking away from the wall. 

They stumble back, glaring at one another as the unspoken word hangs between them, the shameful insinuation just on the verge of becoming a reality. Holden hadn’t really thought about what being with Bill made him, if what they’d done, the lines they’d crept across classified them as something other than heterosexual, or if the fact that real penetration hadn’t occurred saved them from that humiliating identification. But, Bill has, and he rejects it now even as that blurred line and the fragility of it comes into clear focus. 

Bill draws in a shaking breath, and takes another shuffled step back.

“We have a job to do.” He says, his voice calmer now, almost placid. “That’s why we’re here. Let’s go do it so we can go home.” 

Holden sinks back against the wall as Bill strides across the room to the bathroom, and slams the door shut behind him. His chest seizes abruptly, as if it had just been awaiting privacy for the intensity of his emotions to break free. His hand delves into his pocket as his body wilts to the ground, ragged breaths wheezing from his lungs. The Valium rolls against his palm, offering quick, hazy relief; but they’re meant to interview Gacy in less than an hour, and he needs his clarity. He grips the cylindrical bottle in his palm, and counts his breaths until the pace of his breathing slows and he’s left with the slick evidence dripping down his cheeks. 

By the time Bill reemerges from the bathroom, Holden has picked himself up off the floor, and dried his face. They gather their files, and walk silently to the elevator. The drive to the correctional facility is long and tenuous, traffic backed up by the influx of visitors brought in by the car show. Holden closes his eyes and thinks about Gacy, face paint, childhood trauma, and bodies buried under the floorboards. 

~

Despite the conflict raging between them, the interview goes as smoothly and successfully as some of the best that have come before. Gacy is surprisingly forthcoming about the childhood abuse he endured at the hand of his father, the molestation by a family friend, and the urges that eventually drove him to kill. 

“I think we should come back for a second interview.” Holden says as they leave the correctional facility. “I think Wendy will agree with me when I say there’s a lot more to mine here.” 

Bill nods. “I agree.” 

“Most killers don’t want to talk about their childhood trauma, even if it directly impacted what they did later in life.” Holden says, “We didn’t even have to bribe him the way we did Brudos.” 

As they climb into the car, Holden rolls down the window to let in some of the breeze. In these infant days of August, the temperature hovers somewhere around eighty-five and he can’t step outside without feeling the hum of sweat beneath his clothes. 

Bill is sweating too, a fine sheen layering his forehead and flushing his throat. Holden casts him a sideways glance as Bill starts the engine, and puts his sunglasses back on. The sun hangs low in the sky even as daylight lingers on, the haze of summer light stretching on past seven o’clock. Holden can see his own reflection in the black glint of Bill’s aviators, the two of them sitting in this car the way they have a hundred times before, though this time is different. 

“You hungry?” Bill asks, “I saw an Italain place down the street from the hotel.” 

“Sure.” Holden says, “It’s gotta be better than room service.” 

As Bill steers them back into the direction of downtown, Holden sinks down against the headrest and focuses his gaze on the scenery passing by. During the interview, he’d been so wrapped up in Gacy’s story that he’d nearly forgotten about the smoking wreckage of he and Bill’s brief, ill-fated affair, but now that they’re alone again the yearning is back with a gripping ferocity. For a reason he can’t explain, he thinks about Kemper, and the way he’d given up after killing his mother; how sometimes the worst thing that can happen to you is getting exactly what you’ve always wanted. 

Bill pulls into the half-empty parking lot of the restaurant crouched at the end of the street from the hotel. A few blocks over, Holden can hear the rumble of engines and the music blaring festively from the car show. Here, everything is silent, almost a ghost town. 

In the restaurant, most of the tables are occupied by couples, a few of them with kids. Quiet jazz tunes spill from the speakers, blending with the candlelit tables to produce an almost romantic affect. 

The hostess seats them in a corner table near the window, and leaves them with menus and an assurance that their waiter will arrive shortly. 

Holden opens the menu, and glances over the selection and prices. “You think Ted will appreciate us putting this on the budget sheet?” 

“Hey, we scrimped on the hotel room.” Bill says. 

Holden peeks over the golden flicker of the candle between them, suppressing a smile. Bill’s gaze diverts to the menu, hiding the almost fond look in eyes. Holden wonders if he feels just as badly about their argument as he does, whether he regrets the things he said or almost said, or if this dinner is just some kind of fancy apology before he well and truly breaks Holden’s heart. 

Holden’s fingers tremble as he scans the menu, unable to think of food as the idea haunts him. Suddenly, he doesn’t want the night to end, doesn’t want to think about going home, doesn’t care about Gacy and how talkative he’d been. If they have to come back here for the second interview with nothing but stoic professionalism between them, none of it will matter. 

When the waiter arrives, Bill orders something off the menu that Holden barely registers. 

“And for you, sir?” The waiter asks, turning to Holden with an expectant gaze. 

“I, um …” Holden clears his throat, and straightens in his chair, “I’ll have the same.” 

He catches Bill’s gaze over the glow of candlelight, and quickly turns back to the menu. 

“I’d also like to order a drink.” 

“Of course, sir. A red pairs well with your order.” The waiter says, waving his pen at the list of wines. 

Holden peruses the list before arbitrarily picking. “I’ll just have the bordeaux.” 

“A fine choice.” The waiter says, scribbling on his notepad. “I’ll get your order in immediately. Let me know if you need anything in the meantime.” 

“Thank you.” Holden says, handing the menu off to him. 

As the waiter leaves, Holden glances up to see Bill staring at him, something strange and glimmering in his eyes. 

“What?” 

“I didn’t know you liked red wine, that’s all.” Bill says, his jaw clenching. 

“There’s a lot of things I like that you probably don’t know about.” 

Bill averts his gaze to the window where the culminating dusk turns the horizon a shimmering yellow against the pale, cloudless blue. He reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, and Holden focuses on the clean, lacy edge of the tablecloth as the lighter scrapes loudly against the muted undertone of conversation, the clink of dishware, and jazz tunes. 

They’re both quiet until the waiter returns with Holden’s glass of wine. 

“Are you sure you don’t want any, Bill?” Holden asks. 

“I can add it to the order if you like.” The waiter says. 

Bill shifts in his chair, grunting against a deep inhale on his cigarette. “Sure.” 

“I’ll be right back.” The waiter says. 

Holden takes a sip of his wine, wincing against the sharp flavor. He’s never been much of a wine drinker, and Debbie had always preferred white; maybe that’s why he chose red, why he’s drinking it now even as he faintly despises the bitter, earthy taste. 

The waiter drops Bill’s wine glass off, and lets them know their order is being prepared. As he disappears again, Bill turns the glass around on the table between his thumb and forefinger. 

“You don’t even like red wine, do you?” Holden asks. 

“It’s okay.” 

“I don’t think a place like this has Irish whiskey.” 

“The BSU doesn’t have the budget for me to be drinking whiskey tonight.” Bill says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

Holden turns his gaze to the window, using the simmering sunset as his own excuse to look at something other than Bill, trying to scrape together a single thought that doesn’t rotate solely around them and the future of their affair. Bill half-smiling at him like that, like he’s given up caring about the world and its expectations certainly isn’t helping. 

“It was a good interview.” He says, forcing his thoughts to Gacy. “I don’t think I’ll get much sleep tonight.” 

“Me either. He’s one sick fuck.” 

“In a way, I pitied him.” 

“Of course you did.” Bill mutters, scoffing quietly. 

“All he ever wanted was his father’s approval.” Holden says, “Homosexuality didn’t fit into that equation so he repressed it and repressed it until it eventually spilled over into violence.” 

“I think Wendy would probably argue that homosexuality isn’t a precursor to violence or murder.” 

“That isn’t what I’m implying.” 

“Then what are you implying?” 

“His father constantly degraded him, calling him less than a man. He was arrested for sodomy.” Holden says, “He was criminalized for his desires.” 

“He lured young boys and plied them with alcohol.” Bill says, his brow knitting with a scowl. “It was sexual assault, homosexual or not.” 

“Homosexuality is classified as a disturbance now, not a deviance.” Holden says, “All I’m saying is that guilt makes me people do crazy things. And maybe if he hadn’t needed to hide his sexuality, he wouldn’t have killed anyone.” 

“A disturbance.” Bill echoes, taking a drag of his cigarette, and blowing a stream of smoke against the wavering candlelight. “Does that sound much better to you? It’s still illegal.” 

“It’s something to consider.” Holden says, “We consider all kinds of outside forces as they pertain to a subject’s psychology. Parents, abuse, socioeconomic status, education … why not the law itself?” 

“You want to challenge the government?” Bill asks, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray. “We work for the FBI. You should probably keep that off official record.” 

The waiter returns a few minutes later with their plates, and Holden asks for another glass of wine as his first drink is already nearly gone. The wine settles into his veins, slow and creeping, the hum in his head arriving suddenly and all at once. The food soaks up a measure of the sloshing in his belly, but as the dinner wears on, he feels the tension in his shoulders unwinding, a bit of his self-control going with it. 

Bill slouches across the table from him, eating with his elbows on the table. His wine glass is still half-full as the latter end of dinner approaches. He’s stone cold sober in comparison to the tipsy flush crawling up Holden’s throat and cheeks.

Their conversation lingers around Gacy, the ins and outs of his crimes, the new details he’d shared with them. Bill seems perfectly content to discuss the killer’s preference for boys despite his inability to say the word only hours before. As the wine undoes Holden’s tongue, he thinks of standing up and screaming it for the whole restaurant to hear.  _ We’re not any different.  _ But that’s a terrible thing to say, and Bill would likely never forgive him for the comparison, let alone the public display. 

As Bill scrapes his plate clean, he pushes it to the middle of the table, and leans back to ply his cigarettes from his pocket. 

Holden still has a few bites left on his plate, but he doesn’t feel hungry any longer. The candle has burnt down significantly since they arrived, giving him an unobstructed view of Bill from across the table. Cigarette smoke melds into the air with the steady stream of smoke from the candle, producing a haze between them like a curtain. 

They’ve exhausted their conversation on Gacy, and the air stands empty save for the smoke. They wait for the check while Holden sips the last of his third glass of wine, barely able to taste the sharp flavor now that his tongue and lips are tingling. 

Bill takes a drag of his cigarette, and scowls at the darkness finally beginning to creep across the sky. It’s past eight now, and the hours they have left here in Illinois are beginning to look like threadbare soldiers, the last of a cavalry line sent out to fight a losing battle. 

“I love my wife.” Bill says. 

Holden blinks, almost wondering if his drunken brain heard him say it aloud or if he had imagined it. 

Bill’s gaze cuts from the glowing sky to Holden, his eyes misty beyond the clinging sheen of cigarette smoke. 

Holden sits up straighter, his mind bolting from Gacy and racing wildly in the other direction, back to that moment in the hotel room when Bill’s hands were up against his chest, and just having them touch him, even angrily, felt like a relief. 

He doesn’t know what to say in response to this confession, so he says nothing at all. Bill doesn’t repeat it either; he just continues smoking his cigarette until it’s down a nub. As he smashes the remnants into the ashtray, he leans his elbows on the table to meet Holden’s gaze. 

“This has to end.” He says, quietly, his voice nearly melding into the hum of conversation of the patrons around them. 

“Bill-”

“No, don’t argue.” Bill says, holding up a hand. “You know it just as well as I do.” 

“Why?” Holden whispers. “If she knows, she’s going to leave you, Bill. And this time, she’s never coming back.” 

Bill’s gaze drops to the tablecloth, his eyelids pressing shut against the harsh truth. 

“And if she doesn’t, what do you have to lose?” 

“My son.” Bill says, his eyes lifting again, this time glinting with steel. “If I don’t end this now, she’ll never let me near him again.” 

“She can’t do that.” 

“She can, and she will. I know her … I know what she’ll think of- … of-” Bill glances away as his voice falters, emotion pulling his mouth taut against a breakdown. 

“Then what?” Holden asks, leaning forward to catch Bill’s tremulous gaze. “We go about the rest of our lives as if this didn’t happen … as if it isn’t the best thing you’ve ever had?” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do.” Holden says, “I know you’ve never felt the way you do when you’re with me because I feel the same way. I don’t want to lose that, Bill; and I don’t think you do either.”

“This isn’t about what I want.” Bill says, shoving his chair back and rising to his feet. He withdraws cash from his wallet, and drops it on the table before nodding his chin toward the door. “It’s over, Holden. Now, let’s go.” 

Holden has no choice but to get up and follow Bill to the door, or risk being left behind. His head swims as he staggers behind Bill’s determined stride. All he can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other until they reach the car and he spills inside. With the leather seat against his back and his trembling knees shoved up against the dashboard, the disbelief and panic can set into his chest, like a fist wrapped around his heart, pulling, yanking, ripping it from his chest. 

Bill starts the car, and steers the vehicle out of the parking lot. It’s a short trip down the road to the hotel, but Holden feels every second unraveling between them. His hazy eyes take in the white-knuckled clutch of Bill’s fists around the steering wheel, the clench of his jaw, the stubborn set of his eyes turned toward the road, refusing to look at Holden even as everything threatens to let loose. 

When they reach the hotel, Bill twists the key from the ignition, but they both sit still, their heavy breaths rasping back and forth against one another. The idea of the single bed three stories above them looms like a thundercloud, just waiting to explode into a storm. 

“Bill …” Holden begins, trying to gather a plea that might convince Bill to change his mind the way he had on their return from Colorado. 

“Don’t.” Bill says, his gaze seething through the darkness. 

Holden swallows hard against the lump rising in the back of his throat, the miserable clutch of rejection setting in and stinging his eyes. He bites at his lower lip just as it begins to tremble, wondering if tears might soften Bill’s sharp edges even as he despises the realization that he’s been reduced to a sobbing fool at Bill’s feet. 

Bill shoves the car door open with his shoulder after a long moment, and marches toward the front door of the hotel.

Holden quickly presses his thumb and forefinger to his tear ducts, forcing the emotion back down into the little, compartmentalized boxes deep within his chest. Ripping off his seat belt, he staggers out of the car and follows Bill’s determined stride through the hotel door and across the lobby where the atmosphere is peacefully quiet and vacant with the approach of evening. 

He joins Bill at the elevator just as the doors slide open. The elevator is unoccupied this time, all of the guests either in their rooms or off at the car show. The panels on the top half of the walls are mirrored, allowing Holden to glimpse Bill’s rigid profile without ever having to look directly over. They’re surrounded by their own reflection, two men silently quaking in an elevator, the threadbare bits and pieces of a love affair written into the exhausted lines on their faces. Bill hides the tremble in his fingers well with clenched fists and a locked jaw, his gaze focused straight ahead, confident he’ll have the final say this time. 

As the doors slide open, depositing them on the third floor, Holden matches Bill’s stride down the hallway. Sliding the room key from his pocket, he unlocks the door, and holds it open. 

Bill lingers in the hallway, his head tilted down. 

“Maybe I should just sleep in the car.” He says.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Bill’s gaze wanders up from the carpet to meet Holden’s, a quiet plea stirring in their faded blue depths. There’s gaps in his armour, the whole facade crumbling to pieces before his very eyes. 

He takes another step into the room, and Holden lets the door fall shut behind him. The door thuds against the frame, and the lock clicks, the sound echoing into the silence. 

“I don’t want you to sleep in the car.” Holden says, “I want you right here, with me.” 

Bill’s mouth compresses, and his nostrils flare with a hard breath. “Don’t say that.” 

“Why not? It’s the truth.” 

“You don’t want the truth, Holden.” Bill says, shaking his head. “Not really. The truth is that this is never going to work. It’s never going to end well. We can’t be together, not in the way you want. It’s not meant to happen.” 

“Why? Because Nancy says so? Because the government says so? Because God says so?” Holden asks, “I don’t give a shit about any of that.” 

“You should.” 

“I don’t. I give a shit about you … and us.” 

Bill turns his gaze away as he rubs a weary hand over his face. “Christ, Holden, why do you have to make this so damn difficult?” 

Holden’s gaze drops to the floor, quietly asking himself the same question; but he already knows the answer before he can start to feel ashamed. 

“I’m trying to let you down easy.” Bill says, “But it can’t be easy with you, can it?” 

“No.” Holden says, lifting his wavering gaze from his floor. His lungs shudder as he draws in an aching breath, his chest filling with a longing so intense he can hardly taste the oxygen. “I want it the hard way.” 

Bill’s mouth purses as they stare across the room at one another in the impending dusk, the only light penetrating the blinds from the dying sun melding into an indigo sunset. 

Holden crosses the room to where his suitcase is lying on the floor, and crouches down to unzip it. Even in the shadows of the room, his fingers find the jar of Vaseline without hesitation. He drags it free from his packed clothing, and straightens to cast Bill a sharp glance. 

Bill’s gaze lingers on the jar in Holden’s hand. His chest lifts with a staggered breath, and he swallows hard. 

“Holden-”

Holden tosses the Vaseline across the room to him, and Bill instinctively catches it just before it hits him in the stomach. 

“Fuck me.” Holden says, reaching up yank his tie from around his neck. 

Bill’s mouth slips open to protest, but only a faint, scraped gasp emerges. 

“I know it’s what you really want.” Holden says, his fingers shaking as he tugs open the buttons, and tears the shirt from shoulders. “Not with your fingers this time. I want you to really fuck me.” 

Bill’s fingers curl around the Vaseline as Holden strips out of his shirt, and unbuckles his belt. His eyes cling onto the movements, as if his mind has disconnected from his body and he’s a helpless spectator just watching this moment transpire in front of him. 

Holden unzips his trousers, and lets them fall to his ankles. His hand falls against his groin, gathering his dully throbbing cock into his palm, stroking it toward erection. It’s enough to make Bill snap out of his paralysis, and march across the room. Holden braces himself, but he still isn’t entirely prepared when Bill’s body slams into his, his mouth claiming Holden’s with the same biting, burning intensity it always does. There’s no tenderness in between strokes as Bill’s lips and tongue claim Holden’s, quickly turning his mouth raw and aching beneath the fervor of the kiss. 

Holden grasps at the front of Bill’s shirt as they take a few stumbling steps back towards the bed. Bill’s arm wraps around him, pressing the corner of Vaseline jar into Holden’s spine while the other hand claims his backside, fingers digging fiercely into flesh through the thin barrier of his underwear. 

Holden moans into Bill’s mouth as teeth swipe against his lower lip, so hard the pain lingers until his tongue comes next, lapping at the smarting flesh until Holden eagerly opens his mouth again, the willing victim of the next assault. Bill drops the jar of Vaseline to the bedspread, and clutches Holden’s face with his empty hand. His fingers brace against the back of Holden’s neck while his thumb presses into Holden’s cheek, pushing his head back into submission. Holden’s halting breaths compile against the back of his throat as Bill’s tongue all but gags him. He pushes his own tongue back against the thrust, and Bill’s teeth catch at it, snarling in a feral hunger that sends a shiver down Holden’s entire body. 

He gasps as they break apart, and Bill pushes him around to face the bed. Limbs weak and shaking, Holden stumbles forward, and plants his hands in the mattress to brace himself. Bill’s palm grips the back of his neck, approving of this bent over position as his other hand reaches down to strip Holden of his briefs. 

Holden’s swollen cock springs free of the fabric as the underwear sink to his ankles. He buttons his lips over a moan, suppressing the urge to reach down and touch himself. He can’t look back to glimpse Bill’s face with the hand on his neck, but he can sense the thrum of powerful need behind him, can hear it in the desperate rasp of Bill’s breathing. 

Bill grabs the Vaseline from the sheets, and his hand leaves Holden’s neck to unscrew the lid. 

Holden presses his eyes shut, struggling to control his breathing. Every inch of exposed skin aches with raw need, flinching at the slightest touch as this moment surges closer and closer towards the real thing, what he asked for, what he’s been thinking of for weeks but has been too afraid to ask for until now. 

The familiar, slick sensation of Vaseline lathering him sends a hot thrill of pleasure down his spine and into his belly. Holden gasps aloud, his fingers curling around the bedsheets as Bill’s fingers smear a generous amount of the lubricant over him, enough to ensure he fingers will go in with ease. They penetrate Holden without prelude, first one testing the needy tension in Holden’s body, then another one quickly going in as Holden eagerly opens his legs wider. 

“Oh fuck …” Holden moans, his back arching against the surge of shudders that pulse through him. 

Bill grunts a sound of satisfaction as his fingers thrust into Holden, twisting and scissoring to open him up. 

“Oh, Jesus, Bill!” Holden cries, stumbling forward to get his knees on the bed. His legs are weak and trembling, too intoxicated and melted with need to hold his weight any longer. 

Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he wilts forward until his forehead is in the bedsheets, his backside raised against the steady thrum of Bill’s fingers inside him. 

The divine pressure builds though Bill avoids his prostate with every thrust, focusing solely stretching him open. Holden’s cock throbs between his open thighs, swollen with the rough ministrations, aching with the thought of Bill finally replacing his fingers with his cock, finally, truly fucking him. It doesn’t matter that Bill is being more rough with him than he ever has been before, or that he’s played his last hand with this request. There’s nowhere to go from here, but this intense need is all he has left; if this is their last night together, he wants the real thing. Just once he wants all of Bill, everything he has to give, the things he’s held back, and all the things he’s been afraid to admit he wants. 

Bill pauses for mere seconds to add Vaseline, and Holden whines through the lapse, his hips writhing against empty air. He glances over his shoulder to see Bill towering above him, his face sheathed in shadow, but his fingers glistening out of the darkness. His other hand is on Holden’s asscheek, holding him steady as he presses his fingers back against the taut opening. 

“Oh God …” Holden moans, his mouth stretching open as Bill’s fingers delve back inside him. There’s three of them now, slowly and steadily going in; and thank God this touch is gentler because Holden can feel the dull ache, his body clenching reactively against the penetration. 

Over the roar in his own brain, Holden can hear Bill’s hoarse breathing taper off into a husky whisper. “Holden, breathe.” 

Holden nods against the sheets, and opens his mouth to draw in a breath. A strangled sound erupts from his throat as his lungs take in oxygen and his desperate need spills out, guttural and loud. 

“Good.” Bill murmurs, his fingers going deep. 

Holden’s eyes roll back as the caress glides back against his prostate, the single, hard stroke spiking hot need in his belly and drawing his cock into a lurching frenzy against his belly. 

“Oh, please …” Holden whimpers, pressing his knuckles to his mouth as the pressure mounts and he feels his body succumbing, a void stretching open inside him that aches to be filled. “Fuck, please … Bill, please-”

Holden’s begging cuts off when Bill’s fingers leave him, and he’s left crouched on the edge of the bed, untouched and throbbing against the torturous, still air. He shoots a delirious gaze over his shoulder, past the naked curve of his own backside to see Bill strip out of shirt and trousers. 

Holden bites at his lower lip as Bill’s fingers stretch his boxers away from his hard cock. The fabric sinks from his hips, and he kicks them from his ankles. His gaze is steady on Holden’s raised hips as he takes the jar of Vaseline, and dips his fingers in again. A whimper builds against the back of Holden’s throat. He watches Bill’s wet fingers slide over his cock, oiling the hard, throbbing length with a lingering caress. The blunt, veined flesh gleams in the semi-darkness of the room, dusky pink against the coarse, calloused grip of Bill’s palm. 

Bill shifts closer to the bed, his fingers loosely looped around his cock while his other hand brushes Holden’s bare hip. 

Holden gasps in a breath, and arches his hips back toward the impending weight of Bill’s body. He realizes his heart is pounding and his palms are sweaty around handfuls of the bed sheets. His cock is leaping between his thighs, and he’s stretched open and ready; but as Bill draws closer, his cockhead brushing against the soft, puckered flesh, a sense of unreality hits him. He’s thought of this moment so long, never thinking it would come true, that all his expectations shatter one by one like soda bottles shot down for target practice in an empty field. He hadn’t thought it would be like this, in this hotel, after Gacy, after Italian and red wine, after Bill told him it’s over, after he’d said it aloud -  _ fuck me.  _ He hadn’t thought any of the thoughts he’s thinking now like  _ why didn’t I ask sooner?  _ And  _ is this going to hurt?  _ And finally  _ is this my one and only opportunity to know what this feels like?  _

Then, Bill’s cockhead is pushing against him, and the pressure feels divine before it hurts; and the pain lasts a matter of seconds before the overwhelming, consuming sensation of fullness crushes any second-thoughts or regrets. It’s slow and methodical, and it feels like ages before Bill’s hips are brushing against him, and his cock is buried inside so deeply that Holden feels like his belly could explode with it. He can’t tell if it’s good yet because the shock has yet to abate; while he lays there shivering and gasping, Bill’s cock retreats and thrusts down again, a bit faster this time. 

Holden’s cry is muffled in the sheets, the mangled sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands claw against the sheets to ground himself, but as he tries to lift his head to assert some kind of agency over the steady pulse of Bill’s cock invading him over and over, Bill reaches down to take him by his flailing wrist. His grip is strong but not forceful as he guides Holden’s wrist behind his back, and pins it against his arching, trembling spine. His other hand clamps around the back of Holden’s neck, pressing Holden’s cheek taut against the sheets. 

Holden squirms as the position leaves him helpless except for his left hand batting uselessly against the mattress. Choked sounds of pleasure surge up his chest and throat as Bill’s hips rock against him, gradually gaining speed. 

“How’s that?” Bill mutters, the gravelly rasp of his voice sending shudders down Holden’s body. “Is that what you wanted?” 

“Oh, fuck …” Holden gasps, his body arching wildly against Bill’s grasp as the next thrust hits deeper, harder. “Jesus God, yes!” 

Bill’s fist tightens around his wrist, dragging it further up his spine until Holden feels his shoulder begin to throb; still, the pain does little to quell the rampant pace of fire-hot need coursing through his belly, turning his cock to a jolting, dripping length of flesh about to burst with pleasure. 

“Oh God, yes.” Holden whines, his body lurching forward with every blow of Bill’s hips. 

Bill’s muted groans trickle across Holden’s raw, pulsing senses, taking up the seconds of silence in between the slap of flesh and the resulting surge of sensation exploding across his nerve-endings. Every thrust of Bill’s cock hits like an electric shock, jolting him forward, drawing his muscles taut, stretching his mouth open into overwhelmed, slobbering delirium against the bed sheets. The thrumming baseline of his need trips into a faster, chaotic rhythm, his cock bouncing eagerly between his thighs, every brush of it against his belly sending screaming, panicked need radiating through his groin. 

He has only the sense left to drag his trembling hand from the sheets and shove it underneath of him to grab at his spasming cock. A strangled cry splits from his chest as his fingers drag loosely across his erection, igniting pleasure before he can get a proper handle on the leaping flesh. 

Bill releases Holden’s wrist, but his fingers quickly slide up Holden’s forearm to loop around his elbow. The steady, hammering pace of his thrusts doesn’t abate as he drags Holden up from the sheets. His fingers wind through Holden’s hair, tugging his head back. 

Holden’s fingers slip from his cock to brace his trembling body against the bedsheets. The powerful blows of Bill’s hips threaten to knock him back down to the sheets before he can even think of getting himself to orgasm, but Bill mutters a sound of urgency. His fingers disentangle from Holden’s hair long enough to seize Holden by the arm and guide his hand back to his cock. Holden moans as Bill’s palm covers the back of his hand, their fingers interlocking over his throbbing cock. 

“Keep going.” Bill says, his voice fractured by exhilarated breaths. “Fuck, I’m almost there.” 

Holden strokes down eagerly on his cock as the raspy confession intensifies the rage of his blood, the tingling surge of pleasure rising up to claim him. His cock, already leaking with pre-cum and painfully hard, requires little more than a few purposeful strokes before that tide spills over arousal and into bright, spasming pleasure. The sound of his own desperate cries of satisfaction shatter the dull hum of growing need as his hips convulse through the orgasm, his cock spilling hot, wet release across his knuckles and the bedsheets.

He’s still dripping and gasping in pleasure as Bill slams him back down against the mattress, and hastens the already pounding rhythm of his thrusts. Holden clings to the bedsheets, his mouth stretching open in a hoarse, breathless cry. Every inch of him is already crying out in the tender, aching aftermath of pleasure, and Bill’s cock plows into his raw, screaming body like knuckles against a fresh bruise; but it lasts only a matter of moments as Bill’s steady thrusts break off abruptly. Suddenly, Holden’s body is void and aching, and he feels the hot rain of cum spilling across his ass and down his spine. Bill grips his bare hip in a trembling hand as he strokes himself off the edge, his guttural moans of pleasure overlapping with Holden’s heavy panting.

Holden peeks a glance over his shoulder as Bill’s groans taper off into exhilarated breathing. 

Bill staggers away from the bed to retrieve the box of kleenex from the nightstand. He quickly wipes off his hand before using several of the tissues to clean Holden.

Holden sinks down against the sheets as the light pressure of the tissue sliding across his skin intersects with the afterglow hum of pleasure sparking up and down his body. The damp press of the kleenex feels like grounding reality, coming at him much too quickly. 

Bill crosses the room to discard the tissues in the trash can, and Holden rolls over onto his side. The light is entirely gone from the sky, plunging the room into complete darkness. He can only make out the broad outline of Bill’s shoulders as he approaches the bed, his expression hidden in shadow. 

Holden shifts onto his back as Bill sits down on the edge of the mattress. His hand stretches out to grasp Holden’s knee, thumb stroking back and forth. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, softly. 

Holden presses his eyes shut. The way Bill said it, he might have slapped Holden instead of fucking him. 

“Yes. Better than okay.” 

Bill’s hand pauses against his knee. Holden can feel a tremble ripple through his fingers. A quiet sigh spills from his chest, infusing the air with the tremulous sound of resignation and trepidation. 

Holden rouses his limp body from the sheets to sit up on the edge of the bed beside him. He gingerly places his hand over Bill’s, expecting Bill to pull away the moment his palm brushes his knuckles. But Bill doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move except for the incremental tilt of his chin seeking out his chest. 

“I’m okay. We’re going to be okay.” Holden says, trying to convince them both. 

Bill’s fingers shift apart, allowing Holden’s to lace between them. Holden curls his fingers under Bill’s palm, squeezing tighter as his assurance lingers in the air, more of a prayer than a statement of fact. 

A long moment passes before Bill’s hand jostles underneath his. 

“I’m exhausted.” He says, quietly. “You?” 

“Yeah.” 

Bill’s hand slides out from underneath Holden’s, but as he crawls across the mattress, he holds it out to Holden. 

In the dark, Holden can barely make out the glint of his eyes, broken down into a quiet plea. The anger is gone, and maybe it had never been so flagrant in the first place; maybe it was just a flinching fear dressed up as rage, trying ever so hard not to want this - to want  _ them.  _

Holden scrambles across the bed sheets, and into that outstretched arm. Burying his face in Bill’s chest, he lets out a trembling sigh of relief. Bill’s arms wind around him, drawing him close. It doesn’t feel like doing things the hard way anymore; it just feels right. 

~

Heat lightning flashes across the sky in white, spiderweb tracts for an hour before the downpour comes, relieving the muggy August heat with an unexpected torrent. The patter of rain against Holden’s living room windows all but drowns out the low volume of the baseball game playing on the television that he had forgotten about from nearly the moment he’d turned it on. 

Lying on the couch with a book propped on his chest, he tries and fails to focus on the words on the pages while his mind wanders away, back to Illinois. Every time he closes his eyes, his mind recreates those moments with ease, recalling the hot, blunt pressure of Bill’s cock splitting him in two, the pleasure erupting copiously between his fingers, the aftershock when his body struggled to remember its natural state of being after having been so thoroughly thrust open. Bill’s vulnerability after the sex does little to quell the instantaneous erection he gets just thinking about it, but the only thing keeping him from shoving his hands down his pants is their conversation the morning after. 

He’d woken to find that Bill was already awake and in the bathroom getting ready for the flight home. He was shaving his neck when Holden crept into the bathroom behind him, his arms winding around Bill’s waist, his mouth pressing to his shoulder. 

“Come on. It’s seven a.m.” Bill said, his gaze skewering Holden in the mirror. 

“Sorry.” Holden muttered, relinquishing his grasp on Bill’s waist. 

He lingered by the door until Bill finished shaving, and toweled his face off. Bill had turned to him with a weary sigh, the bags under his eyes indicating he hadn’t slept nearly as well as Holden had. 

“I have to see where things are at home.” He said. 

“Bill, c’mon.” Holden said, disbelief cutting past the early morning warmth burrowed in his chest. “You can’t possibly try to walk back what happened last night.” 

“I’m not.” Bill said, “I’m not saying ‘no’. But there’s a lot up in the air right now. I can’t make a commitment to this knowing that …” 

“No, it’s okay. I get it.” 

Holden had said those reassuring words, but he didn’t get it. Still doesn’t. 

Casting aside the book, Holden sits upright on the edge of the couch, and scrubs his hands over his face. It’s killing him just a little inside that he has no control over what happens now, no leverage left to weild. He’d put his everything into that night, and if it wasn’t enough, then he’s out of options, out of arguments, out of pounds of flesh to hand over in exchange for even the slightest fraction of love and affection. 

_ Maybe it’s time to give up.  _ But as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he vigorously rejects it. What he’s feeling right now isn’t something he’s felt with anyone else; not with Debbie, or the few that came before. Even if he mentally uncurls his fist and promises himself that he won’t torture himself anymore chasing after something he’ll never get, his heart will never get the message. Bill owns a part of that now, has it under lock and key, has it hidden in place that Holden will never find or retrieve. 

Holden startles when the telephone on the kitchen counter bursts into a ring. He checks his watch to see that it’s almost nine before getting up to grab the receiver. 

“Hello?” 

“Mr. Ford, there’s a Mr. Tench here, asking to be let up to your apartment.” The doorman says from the other end of the line. 

Holden’s heart leaps in his chest, and it takes him a minute to procure an answer even though it’s already screaming through his mind. 

“Let him up.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Thank you.” 

Holden drops the telephone receiver to the cradle, and runs to the bathroom to check his appearance in the mirror. Running a quick hand through his hair, he pauses to note the flush on his cheeks and the hopeful gleam in his eyes. 

_ You fucking fool.  _ He thinks, right before slapping the lights off on his covetous reflection. 

Managing the tremble in his limbs, he walks stiffly to the front door, and peeks his head out into the hallway. The rattle of the elevator grows louder, radiating down the solitude of the corridor. It grinds to a stop, and there’s a pause in which Holden can hardly breathe before the doors slide open. 

Wearing a long, black rain coat dripping with water, Bill steps out of the elevator. His head is down, and he’s gripping a yellow, manila envelope in his hand. As the doors hiss shut behind him, he gradually lifts his gaze from the floor. 

Holden’s hand goes sweaty around the doorknob. His heart is kicking in his chest like a bass drum, threatening to break through flesh and bone. He swallows against his dry throat, and searches for something to say, even if it’s just Bill’s name. 

Bill breaks into a slow gait down the hallway, filling the tense, humming silence with the muted swish of the raincoat. When he reaches Holden, he lifts his gaze from the carpet so that Holden can glimpse the pain swimming in the hard-fought tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. 

“Bill …” Holden whispers, his voice quiet, fragile. “What happened?” 

Bill lifts the manila envelope from his side, and presses it into Holden’s chest. 

Holden takes an unsteady step backwards as Bill walks past him into the apartment. Holden nudges the door shut behind him, and glances down at the torn seal of the envelope.

“What’s this?” 

“Open it.” Bill says, shrugging out of his coat. 

He drapes it over the back of the armchair, and wanders into the kitchen to open the refrigerator. Pulling out a beer, he leans against the kitchen counter, and unscrews the lid. 

Holden thumbs open the lip of the envelope, and reaches in to grasp a stapled pack of papers. The paper is faintly damp from the rain as he withdraws it, but the words printed in bold, black letters at the top are unobstructed:  _ divorce agreement _ . 

Holden lets the papers slide back into the envelope as his mouth slips open in disbelief. He isn’t shocked that Nancy has finally done it, only that it took so long, and that Bill is here telling him instead of running after her to change her mind. 

“They were delivered to me at work.” Bill says, taking a swig of beer. “Didn’t bother going home.” 

Holden drops the envelope on the counter as he crosses the kitchen to where Bill is standing. The light over the kitchen sink blares yellow and bright across Bill’s exhausted expression, broken down further than Holden had ever imagined he might see the last time they were here in his kitchen, looking back and forth at each other in the middle of the night with nothing but ragged emotion and need keeping them from running from the thing they’d just done. 

“You can stay here.” Holden says, “With me.” 

Bill sets his beer on the counter, and glances away, a grimaced smile crossing his mouth. He sniffs quietly, and reaches out to catch Holden’s fingers between his own. 

“I’d like that.” 

Holden compresses his lips against a smile as Bill’s fingers tighten around his own, tugging him closer. He leans into the embrace and wraps his arms around Bill’s waist; this time, Bill doesn’t pull away or reprimand him, doesn’t try to mitigate the satisfaction of this simple, human connection. Outside, thunder crashes like it’s the end of the world, like it could all wash away in the deluge, but Holden can’t hear the danger or the damage. Bill’s arms are around him, and he feels whole. 

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who read along and commented so far! I'm very eager to hear your thoughts on the final chapter of this fic as a lot that's happened was highly anticipated for the last few chapters :))) Let me know your favorite parts!
> 
> ALSO: The fourth and final part of the this series will be coming next week! <3
> 
> I'm [prinxcesskayy](https://prinxcesskayy.tumblr.com//) on Tumblr!


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